The Sound a Lion Makes
by Jon Sorensen
Summary: Hroar, a child from Honorhall Orphanage, quite unexpectedly gets adopted by the Companions of Whiterun. The companion assigned to the thankless task of looking after him could be more unreservedly enthusiastic about this. Then, because of a, well, childish attempt at making an impression, the boy manages to land them both in big trouble.
1. Blood

**Chapter 1: Blood**

"So," she said, regarding the man over the rim of her shield, "come here often?"

The man replied by puckering his face, ugly as infanticide, into a convulsed scowl. This did not make him any prettier. With one eye pointing inwards and the other one straight, it was as if they were chasing each other as his gaze shifted nervously from side to side. He wore a perpetual expression as if the entire world were an enigma he simply could not solve, and one he suspected was laughing at him too.

Amazing how a man could just exemplify stupidity with his entire being.

Njada grunted. "Alright. I take that as a no, then."

Thin rays of light from the narrow windows illuminated the chaos and disarray in the dark, dusty room of an abandoned fort. The ceiling hung low above them, boards of it missing and the whole thing riddled with cobweb. The room smelt of wet wood, of sawdust and mold, and of mead, sweat, and adrenaline.

The slightest twitch in the corner of the man's good eye, an infinitesimal hint of premeditated aggression, and Njada sprung into motion. The man was just a little too slow to react, with not enough time to even lift up the iron shortsword in his left hand. He could do nothing but receive her crashing into him shield-first.

If offense was the best defense then the offense with an instrument of defense was—what?

A stupid question.

The man was sent staggering back a couple steps, but it didn't take him long to recover. Njada was about to go for a blow from the side with her blade level, when he quickly jabbed at her with his. What little exposure there was available between her shield and sword, that's what he was going for.

Perhaps he was cleverer than he looked.

She retracted her attack, and instead moved her shield to catch the man's sword. She got it in the way just in time, the blade scratched the steel surface with a jarring screech.

The man had obviously not thought his move all the way though, as his sword arm was now left completely vulnerable.

Not so clever, then.

Njada punished such an amateurish mistake by jabbing the tip of her blade at his elbow, into the flesh exposed between the shoulder and the wrist of his leather armor. The man groaned and retreated his arm, but Njada was not finished with him. She dealt a harsh blow to his shoulder, and he was forced back.

"Die!" she howled.

Another strike into his side. The blade cut thought the leather and into flesh

"Die!" she cried.

This was not even a battle. The man's sword arm hung limp and his face contorted in pain as he staggered backwards.

It did not matter. Not all kills needed to be glorious. Most hardly came close.

Despite the clever maneuver being completely wasted on this pathetic excuse for an adversary, Njada lifted up her shield, pretending to again ram it against the man. He merely lifted up both hands in a lame attempt to catch the attack, not even trying to employ his weapon anymore.

She quickly drew the shield aside, and in its stead sent forward her blade, aimed at the man's neck. Prepared for a much larger object, he had not enough time to readjust his defense.

"Die!" she screamed.

Third time was the charm. The blade sailed right over the man's hands, hanging helpless in the air. It slid neatly across his neck, cutting open a flap of flesh and letting out a gush of blood.

Such a vibrant hue of red it was.

The man cackled. Blood came sputtering out of his mouth and he went down on his knees.

Njada had no interest in watching his prolonged death-struggle. She slammed him across the forehead with her shield, sending him down on his stomach. Then she knelt down to routinely pat down his body.

 _Why do I even bother_ , she thought. Third-rate bandits such as this never carried anything worth looting on them.

And this one did not disappoint by forming an unwelcome exception. Lint in his pockets, mostly. A couple measly Septims. A lockpick. But then, rummaging through the man's satchel, her hand hit the hilt of something.

A pathetic iron dagger, probably. Why they couldn't sometimes pack some real—

 _Ho, what's this?_

As Njada's hand came out, her eyes went wide.

It was definitely no iron dagger. Dagger, yes, but made of something resembling a mixture of malachite and gold. Was such a thing even possible?

However it might have been, the thing was beautiful! Such a perfect mixture of gilt and emerald; and as she turned it in her hand, it was if it bent the dim light in the room in a different way from each angle. The blade was of exquisite craftsmanship, balanced like a dream and sharp like the teeth of death itself. Above and below the handle, the weapon's hilt was studded with sapphires and rubies.

 _This must be worth a mint!_ she thought, feeling that warm tickle in the pit her stomach. The cozy glow of greed was what it was.

She then heard footsteps behind her, and hastily stuck the weapon under her belt, tucking the hilt underneath her shirttails.

It was Vilkas, standing at the mouth of the door in his full Wolf Armor. The dark armor made him look as imposing as ever, but somehow never quite as handsome as it did his brother. He was holding his two handed steel sword tip-down in one hand, dripping crimson on the doorstop. He betrayed no sing of noticing her clandestine loot.

"Done with your man?" he asked.

Of the twins, Vilkas and Farkas, Vilkas was supposed to be the smart one. Still, sometimes Njada had to wonder.

"Nah," she replied, "just taking a little breather. Once his neck stops bleeding, we'll be right back at it."

As usual, her sarcasm was utterly lost on Vilkas. "Not too difficult then, I take it?"

She shook her head. "Yours?"

Vilkas pshawed. "A pushover." He sheathed the sword on his back.

"Yeah," Njada said. "Figures. Obviously these were just a bunch of petty thugs." She stood up. "I think it's a fairly safe bet to say that we won't find the Red Viper here, then."

"No," he conceded.

"Guess it was a false lead we got." Njada kicked at the corpse at her feet. " _Damn_ it! Would have loved to put my blade into that slick whoreson."

"You?" Vilkas said, arching a brow. "Who's to say it would have been you?"

Njada smiled. "Well it sure as Oblivion would not have been _you_ , my friend!"

He gave her that strange look of his then. Part puppy left out in the cold, part—what?

"What?" she asked. She got that uncomfortable feeling she always did when he gave her that look.

Vilkas regarded her for a few seconds, the suggestion of a frown corrugating his brow. He started to walk toward Njada, his eyes in a wary squint and fixed on her.

She felt the stab of guilt. He must have caught a sight—

He reached out his hand toward her face and she instinctively pulled back a hint. "What—"

Vilkas ran a cold forefinger across her cheek under her eye. He then regarded the finger, which came out red.

"Blood," he said.

Njada took a swipe at it herself, and a bit of gore got on her finger as well. She impatiently ran the back of her hand over the spot. "Yeah, well" she said. "It's not mine."

Vilkas stared at her a few seconds longer. There was a certain melancholy to his eyes, but then she found that to be their permanent feature. She started to feel increasingly uneasy, him standing so close. His breath went in and out slow and deep.

He smiled, then, and the smile too had a undefinable sadness to it. "Alright," he said then. "Guess we better look for the others."

Njada nodded. "Yeah. We'd better."

She felt an instant relief as the man turned his back. She felt at the knife tucked away under her belt, checking that it was not bulging conspicuously, and walked after him.

The others were not far off. Down the corridor from the room where she'd neutralized her mark was a largish hallway with a trestle table and chairs, a fireplace in the middle of the floor with a cooking spit, various foodstuffs hanging from the ceiling.

A less than appetizing chunk of flesh lay on the table: a dead bandit with his arms and legs dangling off the side. There was a puncture wound about his midsection, bleeding profusely. The blood slowly dripped off the side of the table. Another corpse lay crumpled up on the floor a couple feet away. This one was missing a head, and the said capitulum was nowhere to be seen.

It did not appear that these ones had been putting up much of a fight, either.

In front of the table stood two figures—male and female—and as Njada's eyes met with the female one, her midriff tensed up as it nowadays often did around her.

A faint smile appeared on Aela the Huntress' thin lips. "I see you two didn't have much trouble, either."

It was Vilkas to reply. "Same here," he grunted.

Farkas, by Aela's side, gave his twin brother a little nod. "Still, nothing beats the thrill of a chase, don't you find? The smell of frenzy. Of blood!"

Vilkas simply regarded the other man in silence. "Aye," he finally said.

Something odd had been going on between the two for some time now. Something Njada could simply not put her finger on.

"Ah, the hunt," said Aela in her slow, stilted way. She didn't appear to notice the strange air between the brothers, or simply did not concern herself with it. She tilted her head back as if she could somehow look straight through the masonry. "Nothing like it on a full moon night."

Njada struggled not to roll her eyes.

"This was a slaughter," said Vilkas. "Not exactly the way I pictured it."

Farkas was nodding. "Yeah. It's obvious we were led on. Someone wanted these poor bastards out of the picture, so they lied to us about the Red Viper being here." He concluded his recap with the raising and dropping of shoulders. "It happens."

"Almost makes you think we should ask questions before chopping off heads," said Njada.

"A bandit is a bandit," Farkas replied. "They're game, however you look at it."

Vilkas grunted. "I'd still much rather fight real adversaries worthy of my blade than run around putting down any old dog who pissed on someone's boots."

"Aye," assented Njada.

Farkas shrugged again. "Regardless." He then regarded Vilkas and Njada. "So, any notable loot?"

"Nope," Vilkas replied.

"Nah," said Njada, though she felt that little stab again. She stole another glance at her waistline.

Still hidden.

Aela gave everyone in turn a look of her pale green eyes. How jealous Njada was of those eyes! Majestic and fearless, like the eyes of a lion. No, likely the woman could stare a lion down with them.

"We are hunters," she said, looking at everyone present, "not scavengers." She kept a pause, then continued with a solemn nod, "But we also must eat. Today we go hungry."

Was that it: her big, encouraging speech?

 _What an utterly bombastic ass!_ Njada thought.

What Farkas saw in the woman was utterly beyond her. Maybe he simply fell for the pretentious ones. That would sure explain a lot. She felt a little twinge of guilt, then. After all, she hadn't always felt this way about the woman. It's not like they'd ever been the fastest of friends or anything, but at least it used to be easier to talk to her.

"Though," Aela continued after another needlessly prolonged pause, "this is what we do. Who we are."

"You don't say?" Njada said. The words came out sounding even more sarcastic then she'd meant them. But as long as she'd started, she might as well finish. "And what would our _great leader_ say about us simply chopping down any simpleton come our way as long as someone has a mind to set us to it? Without proper evidence? Or proper pay, I may add."

Aela said nothing, simply regarded Njada with a little smile that likely was supposed to be enigmatic.

Before the silence between the two women started to slide too far into hostile territory, Farkas cut in. "It is true the Harbinger is technically the head of the Companions," he said. "But, as you well know, it is also true that each of us has a measure of independence. We choose ourselves what jobs we take and which we opt out of. While it was I who took this job—and I admit I let myself be duped this time—none of you were forced to join me. You volunteered to be part of this."

True enough. Njada couldn't deny the wisdom of Farkas' words, but that didn't stop her from being irritated. It was partly the way he'd delivered it. A certain stiff manner of delivery united him and Aela. It was almost as if they were uncomfortable in their skins, and that for them normal human behavior was something that demanded constant effort.

Did it irritate her more that she could not fully relate to them, or that they themselves were so tightly knit?

Aela turned to Farkas. "Well spoken, brother," she said in a soft voice. They shared a look.

Njada could not help grinding her teeth at the sight of them. The way they were being so obvious while still pretending not to. It had been going on for the better part of a year now; ever since Skjor died. Did they really imagine everyone didn't know what was going on?

It made her want to vomit. She could practically taste the bile already.

She then noticed Vilkas staring at her staring at them, a ghost of a frown about his brow. She shot him with a look saying: "what?" to which he replied with his own indicating: "nothing".

"Is there something on your mind, still, Njada?"

For a fraction of a second, she almost thought it had been Vilkas' voice, even thought the man's lips were shut tight. Only then did her eyes fix on Farkas' looking right at her.

They hardly ever spoke more than a word at once.

"Uh," she said, speechless.

Curse that man, but that intense stare of his always bit right into her very core. She felt the butterflies in her stomach stir and flutter into a panicky swarm. It was as if they were trapped in there and were trying to chew their way out. Her heart raced, and damn it if she wasn't blushing! The warm surge of blood to her cheeks.

Farkas was waiting, seemingly oblivious to the storm mulling inside Njada. Then again, who could read those unfathomable features, like the face of the most unconquerable mountain. Or some shit.

"I, uh," Njada got out. "No, nothing."

Farkas gave a content nod and—gods, what worse!—added a little smile. "Good. I'm glad."

"Yeah," she croaked in reply, "me too," then quickly looked away.

And where would her eyes find themselves but in the line of Aela's gaze. The damn woman was definitely smirking! Though in her case even a smirk had the air of pseudo-mystical enigma to it. Njada bit the inside of her mouth and looked down. She would not let Aela get to her. She would not!

 _She can see right through me, can't she?_ she thought with chagrin. _What a damn fool I am!_

"Nevertheless," said Vilkas, thankfully cutting off the ugly silence," if I have to spend another second in this Divines-forsaken den, I'm going to loose it."

"Here here," muttered Njada.

Aela nodded. "Indeed, brother. Let us leave now. I have little faith that we would find anything of value here." As if to exemplify, she wiped her forefinger across the surface of the table, then rubbed her fingers together with her nose scrunched up.

Dust, not blood.

"Aye," chimed in Farkas, "let's head back to Jorrvaskar. Some of us have other business to attend to still today." He cast a knowing glance at Njada, and her cheeks felt hot again.

It wasn't out of coyness this time; rather out of irritation.

 _Maybe they hate you_ , said a little voice inside her head. _That would explain a lot. They hate you, and they want you to leave._

As usual, the voice was that of her mother.

"Shut up," she muttered.

"Excuse me?" said Vilkas by her side.

"Nothing, Vilkas." She sighed. "Nothing at all."

The late spring evening gust outside was the most welcome relief after the dusty dungeon. Sun was sinking behind the mountains and the two moons stood wan in the pale blue sky, tatters of cloud sprinkled over the horizon tinted golden pink.

Normally Njada would treat this part of the day with special reverence. Unless she had some job to do, she'd usually draw back into her own quarters, do some shield-practices or read something—a training manual, usually, or some biography of a renowned warrior. But not so today, and she was not happy about it.

But she tried to push it out of her mind for now. She had enough trouble in trying to get over the mild but persistent disappointment over the fiasco of a "quest" they'd just been on. She really badly wanted to blame someone, but was only able to find herself. It _had_ been her own choice to go with Farkas, after all. Usually his sense was better about these things, but he could not be held accountable for a decision she had made herself.

Damn the man, why'd he have to be so . . . right.

As they walked, Njada and Vilkas fell back some twenty strides while Aela and Farkas ahead were having one of their talks. The two were practically inseparable these days, and most other members of the Companions would quickly get the uncomfortable feeling of a third wheel in their presence.

Aela strode on with her unnaturally straight posture, holding her head so high Njada found herself wishing she'd end up bonking it on a tree branch or something.

"Just look at her," she grumbled.

She'd not really intended to say anything, but now that Vilkas was looking at her expectantly, she hadn't a choice but to continue. "Do you think she's naturally that way or is it just an act?"

Vilkas would not participate in the speculation but sniffed, half amused, half disapproving. "What is it between you and Aela?"

"There nothing between her and me."

Vilkas snorted, switching to look ahead. "Right."

"No really," Njada insisted, "there's not. It's not me putting on the airs, now am I?"

The scar on Vilkas' right brow lifted up. "Putting on the airs?"

"Don't tell me you don't think she does!"

Much to Njada's irritation, the man shook his head. "None that I see," he said. "She's always been a bit odd."

Njada thought it seemed there was something else Vilkas wanted to say, but which he thought better of.

"I don't know," she mumbled, looking at the woman sauntering ahead of them.

Aela was motioning with her hand into the distance, as if she'd just been saying, "Look carefully, my son. One day all this will be yours."

"Though," Vilkas added, a bit hesitant. "What she hasn't always been is so tight with Farkas. Is that . . ." he definitely sounded apprehensive, ". . . that it?"

When she turned to meet the man's gaze, it wasn't teasing or accusing. Rather—what?

Had she always had this much difficulty interpreting people's expressions?

In any case, she didn't much like the look on his face. Or the tone of his voice. Or the question itself. She started to feel embarrassed.

This would not do!

"Well, what about you and _him_ ," she said, jerking her head towards Farkas, attempting to steer the subject matter to waters less vexing for her. "You two hardly speak these days."

Now it was Vilkas getting sullen. He didn't say anything, just muttered something unintelligible.

Njada pressed on. "You used to be closer."

"Aye," Vilkas said finally. "Used to."

Njada gave an inquisitive shrug. "So, what happened."

Vilkas was quiet for a moment longer. "Something to do with blood." He was using his curt abstracted tone, meaning he did not want to talk about it but did not want to say so.

It didn't hold Njada back this time around. "Well, obviously," she insisted. "That doesn't explain—"

"Look, I don't want to talk about it, alright."

That was enough to silence her. It wasn't like Vilkas to be so blunt. He was usually just about the calmest man Njada had ever met. Outside of battle, of course. Now he sounded genuinely irked.

But not for long. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said after a heavy pause. "It's just that, if you don't mind, I would like to let the matter be."

"I understand," Njada persisted, "but I just—"

"Look, just leave it! It really doesn't concern you."

Njada stuck his hands up. "Alright, alright! You don't have to bite my head off."

Vilkas gave her an odd askance glance.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "Nothing." He smacked his mouth as a sign of changing the subject. "Anyway, a big day today. We're getting some new blood, huh?"

Njada's mood darkened immediately. "Don't remind me."

"What? Don't you—"

"No," Njada snapped, "I don't."

Vilkas made a grunt that might have been a laugh.

 _It takes my humiliation,_ Njada thought sullenly, _to get him to laugh these days. Nice._

She sighed. So much for getting through the remainder of the walk without thinking about depressing things.

"Anyway," Vilkas said. "I think you're taking the whole thing all wrong. You think they—"

"What are you, my pet parrot, now?"

Vilkas hadn't been all that talkative lately, unless he was listing the things he'd killed. He would still go on and on about that. But now that Njada wanted nothing better than some peace and quiet to properly feel sorry for herself, the man had to keep running his mouth.

He looked taken aback. "I didn't mean to—"

"No, I'm sure you didn't. Nobody ever does." She was irritated at the martyr-like tone of her voice.

"Sorry," Vilkas muttered, sounding a bit wounded himself.

 _Oh Divines!_ Njada rolled her eyes. Did he have to pull _that_ now? Hadn't it beenhimsnapping at _her_ just a minute ago?

"Yes, well," she said. "It's fine. Just don't mention it again."

After a silence, Vilkas nodded. "Fair enough."

"Now if you'll excuse me," Njada said, "I have to think a little."

But there wasn't really anything in her mind she actually wanted to think about. She was just desperate for some quiet.

"Don't let me stop you."

 _Ah,_ Njada thought, frustrated, _don't tell me you hate me now too!_

What had she ever done to anyone? Such an unfair world it was!

As sullen as she'd ever been, she trudged on in the darkening evening, next to a man trying to act as if he wasn't mad at her, following people who pretended to be her friends.

And it wasn't about to get any better.


	2. New Blood

**Chapter 2: New Blood**

"Oh, wow! Is that . . . ?"

Hroar's question, formed in his mind once the city of Whiterun had come within eyeshot, had gotten lost on its way and left his mouth gaping open. Since then he hadn't been able to find it in him to close the said orifice, but he didn't really care. It didn't matter to him now if he looked silly.

The Dark Elf escorting him, Athis by name, had laughed and replied, "Yeah, that's Dragonsreach. Find it impressive, then?"

But it hadn't only been the Jarl's keep he'd been looking at. No, the majestic palace was only the tip of the magnificent spear thrusting out toward the heavens from the rocky plains of Whiterun Hold. The city itself was like the mannish imitation of the Throat of the World, the tallest mountain in the whole word, rising next to it. It stood there, girded by its walls and bathing in the late spring daylight, seeming totally confident that nothing and no-one could pose any real threat to it.

It _had_ warded off the attack of the Stormcloaks just a bit less than a year ago, so supposedly its confidence was warranted.

But of course the Stormcloaks had been pushovers, Hroar was fairly sure. Or at least that's what his friend Runa had told him: that Ulfric Stormcloak had been a lousy leader, and that, all in all, he'd been nothing but a weak coward who'd deserved to die. She'd not been a big supporter of the rebellion, she'd not. But then that girl had seemed to hate the Empire just the same.

This, however, was no time to think about things in the past. _This_ was going to be Hroar's life now. This was his future. This was . . . _wow_!

Mouth still gaping wide open, he walked through the main gate, and it felt as if he were stepping into not only another town but another province altogether. Another world. He could not get over how much light there was. The building materials of the ridge-roofed houses, the cobblestones, but especially the skies above—they all had this _brightness_ about it, unlike anything back at Riften. All of his life so far, Hroar had taken for granted his surroundings being somewhat gloomy and shrouded.

Neither did he see as many shady types jaunting about on the streets. If the prevalent force of Riften these days seemed to be thieves and shifty mercenaries, there was a much different feel to the people here. Even the city guard looked much less disheveled and untrustworthy.

The way Hroar had grown in height the past year, the Dunmer was only a little bit taller than him, but still enough to look down at him. Among Mer, his race was right in the middle where height was considered, and most of them were still a bit taller than average men. Even Nords. He was smiling in the way grown-ups tended to do when they found something you said or did amusing in a cute, cuddly way. Hroar did not much like that look, he did not want to be cute and cuddly. But this time he was pretty much alright with it. In a place like this, how could you be mad at much anything?

"I can see by your reaction to our humble town you've never been to the Imperial City?" Hroar must have looked at the man odd, cause he barked a laugh. "No, of course you haven't. What am I saying? You've probably never left the Rift have you?"

Hroar had to look at something on the ground then. "Well, I . . ."

What to say? It was true.

The man smiled a friendly smile. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. At your age I'd not been too many places either. Of course, that was a very, _very_ long time ago."Hroar didn't really know much anything about the man's race, but even he was aware their lifespans were longer then that of men. How long exactly, that's where his knowledge ended. "Still," the man continued, sounding wistful, "you ain't seen nothing till you've laid your eyes on that glorious city. On the White-Gold Tower reaching out toward the very heavens." He gazed longingly at the sky.

Oddly fondly he was talking about a mannish city, Hroar noted.

"Not to mention the petrified dragon—the avatar of Akatosh that once saved our world. Or so they say."

Hroar's eyes widened as looked up to the man's sharp, charcoal features " A dragon?" he breathed. "Wow!"

Might it be possible this man had seen the whole thing happen with his own eyes? Did his kind live _that_ long of lives? That was like, what, a thousand years ago?

Athis laughed again. "Just be glad you've never been face to face with a _live_ one!"

Now Hroar felt his eyes bulge out of his head, and the elf gave one more chuckle.

"Come on now, son," he said, beckoning. "You've got a lot to learn in your new home."

 _Home_. Now there was a word Hroar hardly knew. A dream, an idea. Something always somewhere else—either in the past or, hopefully, in the future. Could it really be here now? Could this really be it? He hardly dared hope. Something could still come up. Something . . . horrible.

 _Like what_ , he asked of himself derisively, _Grelod the Kind wake up from the dead and take you back to the orphanage?_

Even just the thought of the dead hag was enough to make him shiver. Her harsh voice, the malignant words it uttered. Her slaps on your head, her cane on your buttocks. Or, even worse—

 _Stop it!_

He had no desire to think about her. To think about those dark days.

Gods how glad he was she was dead! How glad he and everyone else had been on the day it had happened. He could still give whoever had done the deed a big old hug, a kiss on the cheek. Certainly it had been a Divine of some sort . . . Though who or whatever it had been, Hroar knew it had been all thanks to Aventus Aretino, the kid who'd fled the orphanage and hired the Dark Brotherhood to rid the rest of them of the witch. Or so it was said. They'd never seen the boy since, to have him confirm the persistent rumor.

 _Enough of that!_

Returning to the now, Hroar finally managed to close his mouth. They walked past the market square, the merchants slowly starting to pack up their things as the day drew to a close.

It was a familiar enough sight: the booths had been arranged in a ring around the town well, much the same as at Riften. The circle was completed by a pair of buildings standing diagonally next to each other, grown together by their overhangs. These were likely shops of some more affluent merchants. Another, larger building rested right ahead, and was undoubtedly an inn.

They took to the right, towards a set of steps leading towards the upper part of the city, towards Dragonsreach. At the booth located closest to the stairs, a girl about Hroar's age was packing vegetables into a wooden crate. Another, older—and very beautiful, Hroar noted—woman was wiping the booth's counter next to her. Judging by the resemblance, they were a mother and daughter.

As he was ogling at the older woman, Hroar noticed the girl's stare on himself. But when he tried to meet her gaze, she looked away dismissively, like he wasn't worth the pair of her eyes. In other circumstances he might have been offended. But he didn't care about it now. What did it matter what some fruit-selling little girl might have thought of him? He was destined to be a great warrior! Perhaps the bravest, fiercest Companion the world had ever laid eyes on!

Puffed up by his own empowering thoughts, he started to climb up the stairs. He felt as if once he'd started, he might as well continue on scaling until he'd conquered the very Throat of the World. The streams of water running at each side of the stairs helped the fantasy, as he could easily imagine their murmur as the gentle song of a mountain stream. He passingly wondered where the water was coming from, but then decided such trivialities were beneath him.

Up the stairs was another plaza, this one circuiting around a huge, magnificent tree. It was one of the largest—if not _the_ largest—trees he'd even seen. The trunk was so thick it would have taken something like four Orcs holding hands—if such a thing was even imaginable!—to reach around it.

It spread its myriad hands all above the plaza, and the wind whispered in the hundreds of pink leaves. Though he normally cared little for such things, Hroar had to admit it was a particularly beautiful sight.

Athis smiled—perhaps at Hroar's sudden very un-warriorlike object of focus— and said, "That's Gildergreen. A handsome sight, no? It stood wilted for a long time but, thanks to the efforts of the Harbinger, is now as brilliant as it ever was."

 _The Harbinger?_ What did the leader of the Companions have to do with matters of botany? Hroar gave the Dark Elf a questioning look.

Reading the expression quite correctly, Athis put up a warding hand. "Not now. There'll be plenty of time for questions later. Right—shall we?" He gestured toward the right side of the plaza where yet another set of stairs was waiting. At the top end of these ones was a large building, one looking as if a ship had been turned upside town and a house built underneath it.

It took Hroar a second to realize it only looked like that because that was indeed what it _was_. He'd heard about it of course, but now he was seeing it with his own eyes and could hardly believe it. He swallowed. This was their destination. Jorrvaskar.

Home.

Suddenly he was not feeling all that confident.

Athis lay an encouraging arm over his shoulders and led him towards the stairs. "Ah, don't be nervous. You'll do great!"

"You think?"

Athis shrugged. "That or you'll die trying."

Then, noticing the look on Hroar's face, he laughed. "Just kidding, son. Relax!"

Might as well have asked Hroar to fly a few rounds above the mead hall he could have. His pulse pounded all the way down in his toes, his belly was all clamped up, and his palms slick with sweat. And despite his best efforts to keep wiping the sweat off, more just kept pushing through his pores.

"No, seriously," the Dunmer said as they stopped at the door, "despite the fierce reputation, we are a pretty easy going bunch." He hesitated. "Well, _most_ of us leastwise. Come on."

At that very moment, as they were stepping through the door, someone inside ran at them—blade pointed forwards and screaming. Hroar had absolutely no time to think about his actions. So he shrieked and dove behind Athis' back. But the Dunmer could not offer him much protection, as he was soon bent over double.

A blade in the gut!?

Then, as Hroar looked over Athis at the attacker—a dark haired woman in her early to mid twenties—he saw to his consternation that she was bent over as well.

Laughing their asses off, the both of them.

He just stood there, confused and—increasingly—humiliated. He took then took notice of the other man sitting at the table in the middle of the hall. The man was also wearing an amused expression, though in truth seemed more interested in the tankard in front of him.

"Oh, I'm sorry, boy," said the Dunmer, recovering now and wiping the corners of his eyes. "We couldn't resist."

"Uh," Hroar replied.

"Yeah, kid," the woman chimed in between giggles, "don't take it too hard."

Hroar felt himself flush.

"Great reflexes, though," said Athis.

"Yeah," the woman said. "Quick thinking using your friend as a living shield like that. Straight from the manual!

They laughed some more.

 _So much for fierce warrior!_

"Alright," Hroar muttered, face likely angry red by now. "I get it, it's funny."

"I'm glad you agree." the woman said, stepping in front of him and sticking out her hand. "Welcome to Jorrvaskar. I'm Ria."

He took the hand. It was cold.

"Hroar."

Ria frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Hroar. That's my name."

"Really? Huh."

"Like a lion, eh?" said the Dunmer, jabbing him with his elbow.

Hroar nodded. "Yeah." He felt more like a kicked about kitten at the moment.

"Ah. Just don't let Aela the Huntress to get on your track, then!" The expression on the Nord woman's face was a grin expecting a validation of her cleverness, even though Hroar had no clue of whom she spoke.

He tried an unenthusiastic chuckle. "I'll try to keep that in mind."

Ria's face went serious. "No, but really—once she gets a look at you, she'll probably want to keep you to herself. She has a weakness for the . . . uh, _fresh kill_."

Hroar could do nothing but stare at the woman, every possible response out of reach for him at the moment. Athis was stifling a smirk, and despite her sober expression, there was a highly entertained twinkle in the woman's eye.

"Oh, let the poor boy be." It was the voice of an old woman approaching from behind Ria. "He's a few minutes in and already you're roasting him like a big, juicy goose."

Ria rubbed her belly and licked her lips, winking at Hroar. "Mm, goose. That sounds just about right!"

The woman scowled at the Nord. "Go on, get!" she snapped, and pushed her back. She then leaned forwards, giving Hroar a friendly smile. "Now let's take a look at you, hmm?"

The woman looked like she just may have herself seen the self-sacrifice of Martin Septim. The skin of her face was a waxy greenish yellow and corrugated by deep wrinkles, and her gray, bleary eyes were nearly swallowed up by the bags underneath them. The parchment-like skin around the corners of her mouth was stretched thin as she smiled. She reached out a wiry arm and grabbed one of Hroar's arms. The grip surprised with its firmness.

"Oh yes," she creaked. "A little lean, maybe, but definitely the right material."

"Are you talking about turning him into a warrior or the supper, now?" Ria quipped from behind her.

The woman shook her fist. "Did I I not tell you to go bother someone else!"

Snorting, the Nord took her business elsewhere. Athis, on the other hand, was still standing right there. The old woman did not seem to mind his presence.

She turned back to Hroar. "My name's Tilma," the woman said. "Tilma the Haggard they call me, these scalawags." She gave a dry laugh. "Though I suppose they do have a point." She put a hand over her hip so as to exemplify her decrepit state. "Anyway, I'm the maid here; though 'the mother' is more like it."

"Nice to meet you," Hroar said hastily, "uh, Madame. My name's Hroar."

"Ah, yes I heard about that. An interesting name. A little lion, are you?" She laughed—or maybe she coughed. "Well, suppose we have a vacancy for one of those around her. Not just for the . . . uh, _other_ sort of beast."

Hroar blinked, not having an idea about what the woman meant, wondering if he should be laughing or not. He decided keeping quiet was less of a risk.

Tilma gave him a long, examining look. "Not a big talker, then?"

"No, Madame," he admitted. "Suppose I'm not."

She nodded. "Probably better that way. Less talking, more doing—that's the ancient way of the Nordic warrior."

 _I guess you would know._ "Yes, Madame."

"And at least you're polite. I think I'm going to like you."

 _I don't really care, lady. Just give me a sword already!_ He noticed that even she was carrying one on her belt.

"Yes, Madame."

"Please, just call me Tilma."

"Yes, Ma— uh, Tilma."

Tilma smiled. "That's a good lad." She reached out her bony hand and ruffled his hair.

Hroar did his best to stifle any reaction, but out of the corner of eye picked up the hint of a smirk on the Dunmer's face.

"Although," Tilma started, sounding hesitant, "this isn't usual for us, you understand? In fact it's highly irregular. See, technically we're adopting you, which isn't exactly what we're here for. You know what I'm saying?"

Hroar didn't, but nodded all the same. Would this ancient female ever stop talking?

Not yet, at any rate. She let out another cough/laugh. "To tell you the truth, I'm not sure it's even perfectly legal! Though, of course, Farkas and Vilkas came to us as just kids. But that was, well, a different matter. Different times too, I guess." The sound she made was clearly a cough this time. "But of course, this might end up benefiting us in the end. Never too many good candidates for holding up our noble order. We've gotten scarcer in numbers and, well, are not getting any younger. Of course, none as old as I. But I am not a warrior myself, or ever was."

 _Please, just put a sock in it and let's do some sparring or something!_

"Well, all the same," Tilma sighed. "We made a promise, and that's that."

Despite himself, Hroar got curious. "A promise?"

"Yes. You see, we're doing this as a, well, a favor. A favor for . . . a friend."

Hroar opened his mouth to ask about this "friend." He had thought it odd—to put it mildly—when he'd originally found out that the Companions were the people to adopt him. The Companions—the very same people he'd always dreamed of joining!

Well, alwaysif one considered a year or so to be "always".

All the same, Constance Michel, the caretaker of the orphans, had not been too pleased with the idea. In fact, she'd made it perfectly clear she'd be caught dead before she'd allow such a thing to happen. Hroar had never found out what it had been that brought about her change of heart. Perhaps he'd get his answers now.

But the old woman stopped him with an uplift hand before he could get a word out.

"I know, I know," she said. "You want to know. I would too. But I'm afraid I also promised not to tell you. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps after you've become more . . . fitted."

" _Fitted"? What am I, a damned shoe?_

"Don't mind it, son," said Athis, laying a hand over his shoulder. "Questions tend to find their answers sooner or later, I've found."

 _Is that so? Then answer me this: where's my damn sword?_

The Dunmer frowned down at him. "Something on your mind, boy?"

"No," Hroar said with a shake of head. "Nothing."

"Good," replied Athis patting the shoulder. "Then let's give you a little tour, huh?"

Finally!

Tilma made to leave. "If you'll need me I'll be downstairs."

"Sure," Hroar said, and thought, _I doubt you have much I'll need._

But then, right as the woman had left, Athis said, "you'll be seeing a lot of her."

 _What?_ "Huh?"

"As you can well see, she's getting kind of slow and could really use some help in some things."

"Oh." It was difficult for Hroar to keep the disappointment from his voice. So difficult, in fact, he didn't really even try.

Which Athis of course picked up on. "Don't worry," he consoled, "you'll have plenty of time for the other stuff, too. Just don't be greedy, alright? We've got plenty of time."

A little encouraged, Hroar nodded.

"Good," Athis smiled, "now let's look around a bit while we're waiting Njada to return. She'll be your primary caretaker, at least for now. She should return any time now with the others."

 _Not another maidservant, I hope._

Athis ushered Hroar further into the dimness of the mead hall. It was a vast open space, the high ceiling supported by heavy pillars adorned with red banners and deer heads. As was usual for places of its nature, the hall was dominated by the setting of trestle tables around a vast fire pit on the floor.

There wasn't anyone around the table besides the fellow Hroar had noted earlier. The Nord was no longer paying any attention to the world outside of the mug returning time and time again on his lips. Half a dozen of empty bottles of mead and ale lay around on the table front of him. He was still smirking faintly, but it was prompted by no apparent external stimuli.

Athis slammed a hand on the table, making utensils and plates—and Hroar—jump. "Oy, Torvar!"

Torvar didn't look startled in the least. He simply looked up, his eyes gentle like those of a cow. A particularly intoxicated cow, at that.

"Athis, my man!" he slurred "How are ya?"

"Sober," the Dunmer replied curtly. He gestured towards Hroar. "This is Hroar, our newest member." It didn't look like his fellow Companion's demeanor particularly pleased him.

"Ah," said Torvar, "the young 'un! He looked around the bottles in front of him, picked one up and offered it towards Hroar. "A drink?"

Hroar opened his mouth to answer.

"No, Torvar," Athis said with firm patience. "He's not having a drink."

The drunken man stuck out his lower lip and shrugged. He then lifted the bottle to his lips, only to lower it again. He tipped it over with nothing coming out.

"Come on, let's continue," said Athis with a cold note, and Hroar followed.

"You go get 'em, Whoar!" the man croaked after them.

Athis guided him to the right, towards a set of stairs leading down.

"I'm sorry about that," he muttered.

"Let me guess," said Hroar. "He's not usually like that?"

"No," Athis replied. "No, he is. Day in, day out."

It was probably better not to ask any more.

"Anyway," Athis said, pointing at the steps, "down here we have—" He was cut off by noises at the front door. Some people walked in. "Ah!" His face cleared. "And here are the rest. Come."

Hroar followed the Dunmer back toward the door as three people entered.

The first one inside was one of the most formidable looking men Hroar had ever laid his eyes on. Tall and broad, with dark hair coming down to his shoulders, and piercing gray eyes which looked like they could have cut a path through solid stone. He was as handsome, Hroar supposed, as a man could be after having his face beaten in umpteen times over. He wore his heavy armor with an ease he'd not often seen—and at Riften he'd seen plenty of big strong men who, despite all floundering, could never appear quite natural lugging such a heavy load on their bodies.

Right beside the man was a woman who could have been his female counterpart. Tall also, she was clad much lighter—in an armored leather tunic that showed, Hroar noted with some embarrassment, a good deal of leg. Warpaint in three diagonal stripes ran across her strong, somewhat masculine, features rimmed with red hair, like a huge bear had clawed at her face. Her pale eyes were possibly even more striking than the man's, and had the same feral, somehow alien feel about them.

Behind the two was another man who was almost a copy of the first. Same hair, pretty much same face except narrower, and dressed in similar armor with small differences in detail, like the head of a wolf mouth gaping open about the collar. Another difference was in the eyes, which were the exact same hue and with the same sharp gaze in them, but somehow not giving the same discomfiting impression. All in all, there was an altogether different feeling to the man. He wasn't intimidating. In fact, despite his imposing frame, there was an odd frailty to him. As much frailty, that was, as there could conceivably be in a man that could undoubtedly tear to pieces most any other man within a split second.

It was obvious then, that these two were Vilkas and Farkas, the twins that had been with the Companions since little children. More than anything, Hroar took that as encouragement: it had happened once so it could definitely happen again. As to which of the men was which, he had no idea. All he knew was Farkas was supposed to be stronger, whereas Vilkas supposedly was smarter. Looking at them now, though, he could take a wild guess.

And this would likely make the woman in their company—

"Aela!" Athis said, "I'm glad you managed to keep the wolf-boys from wandering off. But it still seems as if you lost one."

"Athis," replied the man, who was likely Farkas, on behalf of the woman—evidently Aela the Huntress—next to him. His calm gaze sought out Hroar, who then felt a compelling need to look away. So he turned to stare at Aela's legs instead. They were of a very powerful make.

"I can see our newest member has arrived," Farkas said.

And then they were all looking at Hroar. It was very much like the feeling you'd get at the moment a pack of hungry wolves turned their attention to you.

As Athis lay a hand on his shoulders, Hroar tensed up. As much as it was possible for him to tense up any further.

"Indeed he has," Athis said. "Everyone, say hello to— _Hroar_!" he bellowed out the name, then chuckled. "He was named after a lion, you see."

He smirked down at Hroar as if he'd done him a favor.

"Was he now?" said Aela the Huntress, stepping up. She stopped right in front of Hroar and briefly looked him up and down.

Remembering Ria's earlier words, no matter how facetious, he had to swallow.

"Yes, I was," he managed, cursing the cracked note to his voice.

After a brief silence, Aela smiled. "Well, Hroar. Welcome to the Companions." She had a deep and resonant voice. "This is a big change in your life. Think you are ready for the challenge?"

 _I was born ready!_ "Yes, madame," he squeaked.

Aela simply nodded, seeming content, though she also showed a hint of amusement over the "madame".

"Aye," said Farkas from behind her. "We can't promise you it will be easy. But the reward shall be without comparison. Throughout Tamriel, our order knows no peers. The Fighter's Guild is a motley and haphazard collection of cravens next to us."

 _The Companions are a bunch of incestuous, swaggering cunts!_ Hroar had once heard a member of the mentioned Guild bark, staggering drunk though the streets of Riften. He thought better of sharing this anecdote. As he recalled, the bloated body of the man was found floating in Lake Honrich a couple days later.

"You'd better listen, boy," said Athis. "Took a few decades for Farkas to learn how to properly speak, but now it's like every word he says—"

Athis was once more cut short, this time by the front door flying open. Another person entered, and that very instant as Hroar's eyes went to the latecomer, the rest of the world simply seized to exist. His jaw dropped. Again.

Never before had strength and elegance made such a harmonious pair. The entering woman's face held such rare and delicate beauty within its stalwart lines that Hroar's breath caught in his throat. Her yellow eyes, set somewhat far around the proud slope of her nose, burned with such heat that left little room for doubt she was just asat home in the midst of battle as she was in the throes of carnal passion. Hroar hadn't had any idea that his young heart could contain such eloquent poetry as was now bubbling up in the presence of this puissant goddess. His whole body tingled from head to toe and he was overtaken by the most intense desire to embrace her. That is, if he hadn't at the very same time felt so thoroughly intimidated.

Immediately he knew in his heart: this was a mountain he'd have to conquer. One way or another.

"Ah, Njada," said Athis. "Just the woman we were waiting for!"

The woman, Njada, stopped at the door and shot the Dunmer a look that could not be characterized as anything but sour—an unseemly expression on that sweet countenance. Her eyes then met with Hroar's, and they seemed to nail him in place. For all the lack of love in the woman's gaze, it still felt like a painful loss when she directed it elsewhere just a split second later.

"Oh," she said flatly. "Right."

"Indeed!" Athis enthused, slamming Hroar in the back. "Say hello to Hroar."

Njada's eyes flashed back to him. "Hello," she said, even more deadpan.

Hroar did not have to open his mouth, but all that escaped was a little whimper.

The beautiful warrioress sighed loudly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got something I need to do."

And in the same breath, she sailed past them, walking towards the stairs leading downstairs.

Hroar stared after her mutely. She had the loveliest of gaits, so graceful and full of determination.

"Don't take it the wrong way," said Athis. "It's nothing personal, she's probably just in a good mood."

Hroar turned to frown at the man. "Huh?"

The Dunmer grinned. "Trust me—you don't want to get in her way when she's in one of her _bad_ moods."

Next to him, Aela snorted. It was somehow a very out of character response for the austere woman.

Athis chuckled. "Yeah, there was this one time—"

"Give it a rest," grunted Vilkas.

Seemed to be the "let's all interrupt the Dark Elf"day.

Athis shot the sullen-looking man a surprised look.

"Yeah," Vilkas said. "Let her be. She's just annoyed that we got another bad lead."

"Ah. No luck with the Viper this time either, then?"

All three companions shook their heads.

"Too bad," Athis said, nodding. "Like a ghost, that fellow."

"Who are you talking about?" Hroar asked.

Athis lifted a dismissing hand. "Never mind. No need to worry your head with it just now."

Hroar felt a strong inclination to argue with the man. After all, if he was to be a full member of the order, should he not be let in on the details of their operation?

But he didn't get a chance to get a word in before Athis was talking again. "Well, while we're waiting for Njada to return, might as well go over some details."

A spark of elation struck within Hroar then. It was about time he got on board about the nuts and bolts of this joint!

He, however, was about to be sourly disappointed. As it turned out, "some details" were about the schedules around the hall, basic ground rules—most of them, it would seem, routinely broken by that Torvar fellow—meal times, sleeping arrangements, and all sorts of minor details he did not really presently give two tosses about.

By the time Athis was done with his droning—everyone else having wisely cleared out by then—Njada had returned. She didn't look any more enthusiastic.

"Ah, and here she is," Athis said. "Now, would you be a dear and show Hroar to his accommodations. It's getting late and it'll be an early morning." He smiled at Hroar. "Big day tomorrow. Lots to learn!"

The boy felt a little resurgent hope with that. After a whole night of sleep—or lack thereof—he'd be more than ready to start!

"Alright," said Njada curtly. "Follow me. " And she was already going.

"Better go," Athis said, lightly patting Hroar's back. "We'll talk more tomorrow. Sleep tight!"

Hroar hurried after the fast-walking woman. She was already going down the stairs. He caught up with her, and they walked through the door at the bottom.

After the door, they turned to the right and walked through a long hallway. The hallway was broken into a couple individual compartments from which more doorways branched out in both directions.

"So what's your name again?" asked Njada without breaking stride.

"Hroar," Hroar replied, happy about the uncracking note of his voice. He felt a trifle encouraged now, and even managed to talk to this lovely being now without squawking like some emotionally crippled hatchling.

"Oh, right," replied Njada. "So, what kind of a stupid name is that, anyway?"

She might as well have slapped him right across the face, she might have.

Chagrined, Hroar tried to explain. "You know, like the sound a lion makes? That's what I was named after, my mother always told me."

Perhaps evoking the image of his late mother—his sad fate as a poor orphaned bastard—would thaw the woman's heart.

Not audibly, at least. "Uh huh," she said, not exactly sounding too impressed, let alone sympathetic. "Well, there are no lions here. So I'm just gonna call you 'Cub'. Is that alright?" She wouldn't wait around for a reply. "Good."

At the end of the hallway there was a fully furnished room, appearing to be a study, with bookshelves and a desk in the left corner, a large map of Skyrim spread out on top of it and another, smaller one next to it on the wall.

Njada came to a stop, and swung around. Hroar nearly ran into her. His breath caught in his throat being so close to her. The scars on her face only served to accentuate its beauty.

"Here we have the late Kodlak Whitemane's study," she said. "It hasn't been touched since his death." This was testified by the layer of dust on everything. "So, hands off."

Then she gestured at the double doors at the right sight of the room. "Here's where you'll be staying."

She went and swung the doors open, gesturing for Hroar to step in.

It was a smallish bedroom with a double bed, the sheets of which looked recently changed. The room was furnished lightly: a wardrobe, a nightstand, a small table and chair, a couple crates—the usual.

"These are the Harbinger's private quarters," Njada explained. "You might as well stay here, since our _esteemed leader_ doesn't deign to come around much these days. I'm sure you know of whom I speak."

"Actually, I've never even—"

"Alright," she interrupted, "anything else you want to know?"

"Uh . . . " _I'd sure like to know more about_ you, he thought.

"Oh," Njada said, "before I forget . . . "

She then started explaining some of the ground rules of the order. It was mostly the same stuff Athis had already gone thought, but Hroar didn't want to interrupt. It was partly because he so enjoyed listening to the sweet lilt of her voice, and partly because he was more than a little intimidated by her.

Not only due to the intensity in the woman's eyes, too hot to look upon for too long, but also to the height difference between them—and yet partly by, well, the quite obvious—Hroar's gaze was drawn to the exposed skin around the woman's chest. The lacing of her tunic up there was a bit loose, and the shape of the well-rounded flesh of her breasts was in plain view.

Hroar felt his cheeks warming up, and his throat constricted gazing at the perfect consistency of the nicely rounded hemispheres. He felt a pressing urge to press his head upon that—

Njada's sharp slap across his forehead broke him out of his mesmerized state.

The woman pointed at her face. "Up here," she said, her face impassive. "So . . . any questions."

"Uh," Hroar said, embarrassed. "No, I don't think so."

"Good. Now there's your bed. I suggest you get to sleeping."

Hroar turned to look at the bed. He'd never before slept in anything so luxurious, and he couldn't help wondering if he'd even be able to get any sleep. He pressed on the mattress, trying it out.

Then he hopped on with deliberate ostentation, gave Njada his best flirtatious smile. "It's an awful big bed for little old me," he cooed. "I might get cold in the night. Maybe you should join me?"

He had to admit to feeling surprised himself by this sudden boldness. Somewhere in the back of his mind a tiny voice was screaming at him, demanding an explanation. The voice of reason, no doubt.

Njada didn't show much emotion one way or another. Mostly, she just looked bored. "I seriously suggest you work on your lines," she said, "unless you're looking forward to spending alone _every single night for the rest of your life._ "

And that's really all it took to deflate all cockiness from him.

"If there's nothing else . . ." Njada said with an inquiring intonation.

Hroar shook his head, abashed.

"Great," Njada intoned, and turned around. "Goodnight."

Once more without waiting for a reply, she slammed the door shut behind him.

Hroar laid down on the bed and let out a deep sigh. _If you were trying to leave her with a good impression,_ moron _, you failed miserably._

"At least I tried," he muttered, and waited for a counterargument to arise within him. It didn't.

 _Oh well, there's always tomorrow._

Tomorrow. The word filled him with excitement. Tomorrow his new life would begin in earnest. He was on his way to becoming what he always knew he was destined to be—a great warrior! This was his chance, what he'd always dreamed of, handed to him on a gold platter. And it was all thanks to—

To think of it, he really did not know who it was he should be thanking. It bothered him to no end that he did not even know the name of his beneficiary.

Oh well, he would find it out one day. He would pay his debt. He would show them, show them all he was worth it. Athis, Aela, Farkas, Vilkas . . .

And Njada.

Already forgetting about his humiliation, Hroar was increasingly sure he would yet woo that woman. He would make her realize what he was made of. He would—

A thought—and, in truth, a little more than just a thought—stirred within him. He got off the bed, walked to the door and pressed his ear against it. It was quiet.

Alone, then.

He slipped out of his outside clothes, blew off the candles on the lamp hanging from the ceiling and light on the nightstand, and dove under the blankets. Once there, he closed his eyes, tucked his hand inside his shorts, and thought of Njada.

"Call me Hroar," he muttered, a little smile on his lips. "Like a—"


	3. The Good Fight

**Chapter 3: The Good Fight**

"Lion!"

Her scream made the kid spring up like he'd been poked with a spear. He rolled over on the bed and was tossed out onto the floor. He then quickly sat up, looking around frantically with his eyes still obscured by sleep.

Njada's stomach cramped up and she was forced to lean onto her thighs for support, she was laughing so hard. It was literally the most hilarious sight she'd seen in a good while.

Hroar was looking at her with that sense of disbelief and bewilderment shared by those abruptly awoken and those about to die. "What?" he muttered in his drowsy rasp.

"Wake up, Cub!" Njada said, once she'd gotten over the amusement. "Time to get cracking."

The kid just stared at her, slowly getting up on his feet.

"Hel- _lo_?" Njada said, waving her hand in front of his face. "Anybody there? I said time to get—"

Then, despite herself— _really_ despite herself—her eyes went to the conspicuous bulge about the boy's crotch. She raised an eyebrow. "Uh . . ."

The boy blinked, then noticed it himself. Turning angry red, he covered the awkward protuberance with both hands, turning his back on her.

Njada herself spun around. "Yeah, uh, you just . . . do what you've got to do, then get dressed. I'll be waiting outside."

Walking out the door, she badly wanted to chuckle, but supposed even this runt deserved some shred of dignity. She couldn't stop smirking, though.

But by the time the boy walked out, all dressed and his face pale and somewhat elongated, she'd reestablished her hard-nosed demeanor. "There you are. About time." It hadn't taken very long, in truth, but she wasn't about to cut this kid any slack, even if she was forced to play nanny.

"Sorry," Hroar mumbled.

Njada started to walk.

"Come," she said, and couldn't help cringing at the double-meaning.

The boy scrambled after her. "What are we doing?" He sounded like he had rediscovered some of his annoying juvenile spunk.

Another cringe.

"You'll see," Njada said.

Once they were close to the stairs, the boy pulled up beside her.

"So, what's our first training gonna be."

Njada stopped. "Training?" she asked with a raised brow. "Oh, you've got this all wrong!"

Hroar stared at her nonplussed. "Oh?"

"No, we're not going to go _training_."

Cub looked sourly disappointed. "Oh," he said, eyes going to his feet.

"No, we're going to go straight to battle!"

"O— _huh_?" Hroar looked up sharply, eyes incredulously round. "We _are_?"

Njada nodded eagerly. "Oh yes! You see—" She lowered her voice, "—there's this particularly fiendish enemy that's been plaguing the Companions."

The boy leaned closer, swallowing audibly.

"We know," Njada continued, "that he has infiltrated the very Jorrvaskar itself, but even the strongest of us is powerless against him. _You_ are our only hope"

The kid blinked. "I _am_?"

Njada looked intensely into his eyes and gave a grave nod. "Yes, you are. In fact—" She put a finger on her lips, and looked around. "I believe he's . . . "

She then turned her gaze at the floor between them, widened her eyes and gasped. "I knew it! He's more cunning than I dreamed!" She reached down, her movement followed by Hroar's perplexed—and frankly quite intimidated—gaze. She picked up something off the floor and lifted it in front of his eyes. A piece of mud from somebody's boots. "See here?"

Hroar's eyes crossed as he focused on the speck of grime. It was obvious he hadn't the faintest clue of what it was he was supposed to be looking at.

"Our enemy?" Njada said. "His name is Dirt! And he's all over us." She nailed Cub with her eyes. "You are the only one who can defeat him."

Hroar's expression changed as he slowly caught up with the joke. "Oh . . . "

"Come!" Njada grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him after her. She went to a closet in the corner, opened it up. She grabbed a broom, shoved it in Hroar's hands. Some rags. A bucket.

"Here," she said, shutting the closet door. "These will be your weapons against this foul fiend!"

The kid held the cleaning equipment clumsily in his arms, looking absolutely ridiculous.

Njada stifled a smirk. "Go upstairs to fetch some water. Tilma should be there, and will equip you with more specific instructions. Any questions, soldier?"

Hroar's mouth opened.

"Good!" Njada said. "Alright. You go now, and you fight well!"

Hroar looked for a second like he might have had something to add, but then his mouth closed. He slumped a little and started to trudge up the stairs.

"Oh, and Cub?"

The boy turned around, perhaps a small spark of hope in his puppy eyes. "Yes?"

"Don't let me catch you loitering about. You think they call me Njada Stonearm for my prowess with the shield?" Njada shook her head. "Not so. I'm thus called for my proficiency at whooping the asses of lazy punk kids. You got that?" Without waiting, she waved the kid away. "Good. Go!"

Once the pup was on his way, Njada walked back down the hall "Kids," she muttered, shaking her head. "'Training'!"

But there was something else she more important she needed to think about than this thankless assignment of babysitting she'd been "entrusted" with. That something was waiting for her in the chest next to her bed. She felt the warm tingle in her stomach just thinking about it.

Just as she was about to turn from the main hall to the women's side of the sleeping quarters, someone called from behind her. "Njada! I was looking for you."

Njada stopped, rolling her eyes with annoyance. _Of course!_ She pasted a tolerant little smile on her face and turned.

Vilkas was smiling at her, an expression less than frequent on that face lately. "I was just wondering," he said, with an oddly coy manner, "if you'd like to do a bit of sparring or something?"

The way he asked it, Njada thought with mild amusement, was like a pubescent boy asking the girl next door out for a stroll. To go flower picking, or some crap like that.

She sighed. "Oh, Vilkas. I'm sort of tired and I need to—"

"I get it," Vilkas nodded. As he started to walk away, he muttered, "Wouldn't want to embarrass you."

Njada narrowed her eyes. "What'd you say?"

Vilkas stopped, turned his face just enough to regard Njada in his peripheral vision. Was he smirking a little?

"You know," he said, "in front of everybody." He turned his head all the way. Yup—definitely a smirk on him. "By beating your ass."

"Oh," Njada laughed defiantly, "oh, that's it! You and me—outside!"

She shoved ahead of the now chuckling Vilkas, herself unable to keep a grin off her face. Damn that man, but did he always know exactly how to push her buttons!

Outside the early morning sun beamed down on the backyard practice ground. Aela, Farkas, and Ria were sitting around the little table in the shade of the patio swigging mead and ale, while Athis stood in the middle of the yard with a hunting bow, taking lazy shots at one of the person-shaped targets lined up next to the wall girding the Hall. The clanging of hammer on metal carried out from the left, where Eorlund Gray-Mane was already hard at it, working his steel at the Skyforge located atop a large outcrop.

Njada marched to the middle of the yard, waved impatiently at Athis. "Move, elf. We're here to spar."

Athis shot her a look of mock indignation. "Well, ex _cuse_ me," he intoned theatrically. "But I was practicing—"

"You can practice catching my fist with your chin again 'less you move," Njada pointed at the patio and snapped her fingers. " _Now_."

Athis, rolling his eyes, did as told.

Njada took a position, unsheathed her blade, set her shield in front of her. She cracked her neck and rolled her shoulders. "Alright then, you paltry scamp," she snarled at Vilkas. "Let's get your lesson over with so you can spend the next week or two trying to figure out what exactly it was that happened to you."

Vilkas, as usual, said nothing. There, was, however the most infinitesimal glint in the corner of his eye. Something like mirth, or a distant relative at least. Maybe he was starting to get over whatever it was than had kept him so sullen for the past months. He slowly and dramatically drew the broadsword off his back, ran his hand over the length of his blade. He flicked at the tip, and a resonant chime sounded in the silence of the yard. The metal sang in an immaculate note, trademark of the famous Gray-Mane steel. It was still ringing as Vilkas set it in front of himself, taking the fighting position.

Njada gave her shield a couple firm sword-clouts. The song it produced may not have been as pretty, but damn it if it did not speak for itself. She hawked phlegm, spat, and growled, "Come on then, I don't have all—"

Vilkas roared and darted at her.

She was damn near caught off-guard by his sudden bolt, and only through her unsurpassed skill was able to catch the bulky sword with her shield. Vilkas had gone for a wide blow; probably put all his strength into it too judging by the nasty sparks of sharp pain surging up her arm. The deafening crash made her ears ring.

But never mind that. If there was anything to be said about such an over-the-top ferocious initial attack, it was to call it a gamble. Chances were you'd get your foe out of the game right off the bat, if you knew your stuff, if you played it right, and if luck was on your side.

And if your foe was an utter fumbling dolt.

Njada—not a fumbling dolt, her—drew all her attention away from the pain in her shield arm, focused instead on the opening in Vilka's defenses. His momentum was still in the attack and he'd have no time to defend himself. So Njada jabbed her blade at his breastplate, at the spot just under his sternum. Do it hard enough, and he'd have his wind knocked out.

But, to her utter surprise, Vilkas twisted his torso just enough so that the tip of her blade just skidded ineffectively across the armor's surface. Then, as her arm was still stretched out past him, he crashed into her with all her bulk, sending Njada toppling backwards.

While she was struggling to find her balance, Vilkas took a couple steps back, assuming again the battle-ready stance.

Njada didn't wait around. As soon as she had found her legs again, she sprang into a counter-attack, screaming like a wounded saber cat. Vilkas did not budge before she brought down her sword toward his neck in a heavy arch. He simply caught it with his blade, sparks flying as metal collided into metal.

A clear disadvantage of a two hand sword was of course the fact that it was difficult to employ at close range. There was little Vilkas could have done to stop Njada's shield, which she now rammed right into his face. He grunted as the steel crashed into his skull, and harder as she followed the blow with a well-aimed kick at his lower thigh. An inch lower, a kick at his straightened knee, and his popliteal would have been done for.

Njada didn't tarry, but instead swung her sword at Vilkas' side as hard as she could. It hit, and the man grunted, drawing back. She wound up her blade anew for a follow-up, but by this point Vilkas found it in him to go for an attack of his own. He managed to surprise her with a quick and powerful sideways slash, which took her in the left shoulder, getting just past her shield.

And since, unlike Vilkas, she was wearing only simple leather armor with only a lone pauldron protecting her shoulder, it really hurt—Stonearm or not. She let out what was likely an ear-splitting screech; she couldn't tell herself from the ringing in her ears.

Her arm numb, Njada stumbled backwards from pain and surprise. She was temporarily unable to bring up her shield with the dull ache of her arm, but Vilkas was coming still. He lurched forward with a heavy diagonal plummet from overhead, roaring like bear with a bad case of hemorrhoids.

There was no question of deflecting this one, so she could do nothing but dive out of its way. She caught the ground with her good elbow, though in an only barely controlled manner. There was a sharp burning pain, and she saw sparks in her eyes. She did, however, roll over and bolt right back onto her feet. She took a few running steps to clear out from the zone of immediate threat, then whirled around, ready for more.

Njada was again able to lift the shield in front of her and was prepared for another go, despite the pain that she felt in both shoulders now.

Vilkas had not pursued her, but instead settled down to wait for it. He had a strange look in his eyes, like he was squinting against sunlight even though it was at his back. Njada couldn't help to grimace at the pain in her right shoulder. She'd taken that fall worse than she'd thought. It hurt to hold her blade up. She grit her teeth and did her best to ignore it.

"Are you alright?" the man asked, sounding concerned.

His tone irked Njada greatly. "I'm fine!" she barked.

"Are you sure?" Vilkas pressed on. "'Cause we can just—"

"I said I'm _fine_!" she screamed, springing forward on the last word.

The thing with letting your emotions influence your moves when fighting was that it was definitely a double-edge sword. On one hand you put yourself at risk of being sloppy, making bad judgments and ultimately put your life on the line. But then, on the other hand, at times it was just the extra touch you needed. Sometimes, when the two combatants were equal in skill and form, it was the one who could use her anger to her advantage who got the upper hand. Still, on yet one more hand, it could be the one who could keep her personal feelings in check.

However it was, thinking about it sure had never won anyone any fights.

Focusing on the moment, just letting the chips fall as they may, Njada charged. Vilkas received her first hard blow without too much evident difficulty. Same with the second one. The third one, this one directed at his head, made him scowl a bit already. The fourth one was a jab at his abdomen which he barely managed to sweep aside. Njada quickly spun around and came from the other side. Vilkas parried that one alongside its follow-up.

He was definitely on the defensive now, and she felt like she should have been more encouraged by this. But it just didn't feel quite right. Vilkas' moves felt forced somehow, restrained. Like he was holding back. It was obvious his heart wasn't fully in it. You could see it in that stupid hesitant little face of his.

"Stop giving me slack!" Njada grunted, pounding at his sword time and time again.

"I'm—" replied Vilkas, parrying, "—not!"

Another close one aimed at his side.

"You are!" she insisted. "Come on, attack me!"

Vilkas did not.

"Come on!" roared Njada, "If you—"

"Alright!"

Vilkas dashed past her as she was going for a low sideways slash, rammed his elbow hard into her side. The pain was sharp and the impact knocked a bit of her wind out. Njada stumbled forwards but managed to keep her feet about her.

While she was recovering, Vilkas lifted his massive sword above his head, rotated it clockwise in a wide arc, the air around it swooshing. Then the weapon was coming right at her. That sort of attack was what was generally referred to as the "mansplitter". Upon encountering such an offense one had better come up with one of two maneuvers: get the hell out of the way, or block it.

Njada went for the latter. She lifted her shield in front of her, crouching down for better support. On the outside, it probably looked like she was helpless against such force, but damn it they did not call her Njada Stonearm for—

"Fuck's sake!" she cried as the blow landed. Her entire body jolted, and the astonishingly loud bang stole the rest of her hearing. The sound of her own scream was like a whisper from a faraway land. Her wisely chosen position alone kept her on her feet.

Vilkas did not withdraw his blade, but instead put his full weight against it, forcing Njada on one knee. She should have tried to jab him with her blade, but with all her strength going into her shield-arm, and the fact that her right shoulder was still throbbing like the cock of a horny cave bear, didn't allow for that.

Above the rim of her shield appeared the face of Vilkas, grinning with exertion. There was a pained look in his blue eyes but it somehow wasn't just the usual vexation from hard labor. "Have you had enough?" he managed through gritted teeth.

"Never!" Njada grunted, though it was likely impossible to tell as she was presently suffering from an acute inability to from proper consonants.

Something like disappointment flashed in the man's eyes. Grief, almost. What, the bastard was expecting her to just yield?

"Tell you what, though—" Njada said.

An expectant expression formed on Vilkas' face.

And Njada spat in it.

She felt him release just enough of his force, and she found the strength to push his blade off. Vilkas released one hand on the hilt to wipe her slime out of his eyes, and Njada used this opening to attack.

Keeping in mind that they _were_ just supposed to be sparring, she stifled her instinct to ram her blade into his face. So instead she poked the tip into his hip. The armor he wore was quite encompassing, but she had the idea that somewhere around that point under the skirt, there was a thinner part.

As luck would have it, Vilkas let out an agonized cry as the sword made impact. That leg gave a little, and he took a couple stumbling steps backwards. Njada danced after him but didn't attack again before he'd recovered a bit. After all, she didn't want her victory to be _too_ easy.

 _Victory?_ Her mother's voice snarled. _That would be a first!_

 _Shut up._

She pressed on, dealt Vilkas, now firmly on the defensive, plummets right and left. He still managed to meet them all.

"Come on, old man," she goaded. "Give it up."

Vilkas frowned. "Old man," he grunted. "I'm only a few years older than you."

"Sometimes," replied Njada grinning, "a few years is all it takes."

She jabbed him in the chest, and Vilkas, who hadn't enough time to swat her blade aside, grunted, stumbling back a couple steps. She crashed her shield into him to cause further imbalance, then stopped to watch him clumsily find his feet.

"See?" she teased.

The expression on the man's face was short of amused.

"Why're you toying with him?" yelled Ria at the patio, waving her tankard so that mead spilled all around.

"Yeah, show my brother why I'm too ashamed to spar with him anymore!" Farkas was wearing an uncharacteristically relaxed smile on his face. He must have been drunk already.

Vilkas flashed a profoundly irritated glare at his twin brother.

"Alright," muttered Njada. "Might as well give them what they ask for."

She sprung at the bemused Vilkas, ready to do what it took to bring this show to its respectable end.

The sullen man took her completely by surprise then. He suddenly bellowed out as taken by a fit of rage, moved more quickly than she could have ever anticipated and swung his large blade at her shied. The impact, along with the force of her own speed and her being unprepared for it, forced her shield-arm to slam hard against her own chest. That knocked the wind out of her, and the top edge of the shield took her in the chin.

Vilkas didn't wait around, but lifted his sword right above his head. Before bringing it down, he kicked at Njada still recovering from the earlier blow. His boot slammed right into the middle of her torso, not doing anything to help with the acute deficit of air in her lungs.

Down on her back she went.

Sparkles danced in her eyes, her vision swam, and it took her a while to bring herself back to here and now. But before Vilkas came after her with that blade of his, she swung up her legs and kicked herself up and back onto her feet. Vilkas was already bringing his weapon down and could not change his trajectory, so Njada was just able to stumble out of the way of the death blow. The heavy blade dusted the ground behind her.

Suddenly it didn't feel that much like sparring anymore.

She took a few running steps before spinning back around, then had to lean on her legs to try and catch her breath. Vilkas had not pressed on, but waited for her to recover. He regarded her with his back hunched like a prowling predator, his face stern but eyes flaming. Seemed he'd found his combativeness, after all.

 _See, you were just lucky. Had to get cocky, did you?_

 _Shut up._

Not wanting to show that for a few seconds there he'd actually taken her for a ride, Njada started to circle around Vilkas, trying to force her gait into the form of a cocky dance.

"Well, well," she said. "The kitten can scratch after all."

The crowd of Companions—who'd gotten a bit quiet for a while in the face of Vilkas' attack—laughed lazily at that.

Vilkas did not show emotion one way or another. "Not bad for an old man," he said, the tone of his voice not betraying whether that was an attempt at humor or what.

 _Yeah, well maybe if you'd put yourself up against a_ real _fighter . . ._

"Shut _up_!" Njada screamed and leaped forwards.

Consternation over her words animated Vilkas' face for a heartbeat, but didn't keep him from being ready for her this time. He calmly parried each of her attacks, eyes vigilant for an opening. Njada could feel herself getting overly worked up, felt her irritation interfere with the purity of her form, but could still do nothing to stop herself.

 _What the hell! she thought. Let the chips fall as—_

Vilkas saw his opening, then, and took it. As Njada jabbed sloppily at his left shoulder, he easily swatted her blade aside, then rammed his elbow in her face before she could get her shield in the way. The elbow struck her hard, just missing the nose. And it hurt like a gods-damn motherfucker!

Njada's head snapped back and she stumbled sideways, eyes watering so she could see nothing but a misty blur. Vilkas followed up by slamming the flat of his sword into her side. That hurt like another motherfucker. She took a couple barely controlled trudges forwards, but managed to keep her balance. She then forced herself to stop and used all the strength left in her to spin back around via her left, swinging her blade half-blindly at the still attacking Vilkas.

By a happy chance, the man had his heavy blade at his right, and so could not bring it to protect his left side fast enough. The exertion had slowed him down. So Njada's poorly constructed, yet fervently executed, offense proved to be successful: her blade took Vilkas in his left shoulder, making him cry out and shy back a couple steps.

Njada could not follow up on it, however, but herself had to fall back a step or two. She could feel her body running on its last bits of juice. Luckily the same could be read from Vilkas' face: the man breathed heavily through gritted teeth, kept blinking his eyes like he was having trouble focusing.

Njada was having the same problem. Perhaps it was the hits she'd taken, or the tears still clinging to her lashes, but the large man was constantly trying to split in two in front of her eyes.

She tried, however, to keep any of this from showing. Poorly, at that.

"Alright," she croaked, "time to—"

Vilkas would not listen. Instead he exclaimed a hoarse roar and charged. Njada did the same.

It was a mystery how new energy always seemed to spring from nowhere when you were in battle. No matter how spent, no matter how ran out you thought you were, you could always summon a little more strength when you needed it. Only once it was over, reality would come hit you square in the face, but not before then. Until that moment, you could go on nearly indefinitely.

And this was not over just yet.

They had both gotten slower, more sluggish in their movement. Tiredness shone boldly in Vilka's face, and Njada knew her own visage to mirror exactly the pained grimace weighing down the man's wolfish features. Neither was taking the upper hand now, both dealing jabs and sweeps in their turn, parrying and deflecting accordingly. Njada didn't feel like joking anymore, and Vilkas himself looked like he was at the brink of tears.

Then a powerful wave of irritation—no, _disgust_ —took over Njada. She let out a screech so hoarse and powerless as to be near comically pathetic, and summoned a little more of that mysterious battle-juice. Disregarding grace, she gave Vilkas a series of unpremeditated blows, forcing him on the defensive again.

It felt like a miracle, the way her arm kept rapidly pounding down on the man. She hardly felt connected with the limb anymore. In fact she hardly even felt like an essential part of her own body at all, nearing that blessed sensation in the midst of battle when you ceased to be yourself altogether. Ceased to be anything at all. At such a moment, all that was left was action: pure, unadulterated energy.

After she'd forced Vilkas back enough, Njada dashed past him by his left. Before he could turn to follow her, she halted, then spun around and with all her strength rammed her shield into his legs. Vilkas grunted in pain as the edge of the shield struck right in the little opening left at the backs of his knees. He buckled and fell backwards, and Njada just barely managed to pull herself out from being crushed by his toppling bulk.

She straightened herself up, her back now turned to Vilkas, threw out her left arm and let the shield fall off it. It came free and flew up in the air in a tall arc. Njada let herself keep moving, swirling around to her right, letting her sword lead the way. Everything felt to slow down, and it seemed like a long time she was spinning. She had enough time to see the expressions on the faces of her audience. Curious. Entertained. Surprised. Excited. Drunk.

She felt a joy, then. She knew that despite it having being a somewhat desperate attempt, she'd made the right call, found the right tactic. She was going to win! By the time she got a look at Vilkas' face, there would be the sweet signs of defeat to be read on it. She didn't care if it was only sparring. A victory was a victory, and doubly so after a worthy battle.

So she continued on her pirouette, swinging her sword where she know Vilkas would be laying on the ground. And, sure enough, its tip found its way exactly where she'd meant for it to go, stopping at the man's bare throat, right beneath his Adam's Apple. The said protrusion went up then down as the man swallowed. His eyes were wide open, his expression a jumble of things—so many emotions, so tangled up together it was hard to say which was which.

But no defeat.

Njada stared into those blue, blue eyes. How strange they were, so unreadable. They stared back at her unblinking: melancholic, yet with unwavering determination. And her eyes—they were wide, too. And, strangely, it wasn't victory that she felt. It was—what? Surprise? Shock? At first she couldn't figure out why it was she felt that way, but the answer was a feeling before it was anything else. A cold tickle about her own throat; a pressure at the point where her neck and jaw came together. Then a visual recognition.

It was Vilkas' long blade, poking out from the end of his extended arm, ending where else but at her own throat, the tip just touching the skin.

Defeat, then. A double-defeat.

Some called it a "tie".

They stared at each other in silence, frozen in place with the blade of each on the throat of the other, like a tableau of some famous battle. Somewhere behind her, Njada heard a crash as her shield hit the ground. She was blinking, still not quite understanding it, not accepting it. Vilkas seemed to be in the midst of a conflict of his own, judging by the way his face twitched and shifted. There was no joy of victory in those eyes, if no anger of defeat, either. No joy, no anger. Just—sadness?

It made Njada angry. She wanted to scream, to call the man every disparaging name she could think of. She didn't even know why. But, in any case, she kept her silence, swallowing down the bile of disappointment, gritting her teeth in frustration. She had to keep feeling something, something _strong_ , or else she was sure her knees would give out.

The pressured silence was broken by the sound of hands clapping. First one pair, then a couple, and then a small chorus. Njada grimaced. It was the most mocking sound she could imagine at this point.

Then she finally let her blade drop, Vilkas doing the same, and turned to look at their audience. There wasn't any mockery in their eyes. What was it, then? Looked almost like—respect?

 _Now of all times! Oh, the bitter irony._

Athis stepped forward, likely him who'd applauded first. "Well," he said. "That was some damned good sparring!"

"Hear, hear!" yelled Ria from behind him, raising her tankard.

"You can get up now brother!" called Farkas in turn. "The big, bad girl won't be bothering you any longer."

Yeah, the man was definitely drunk.

Aela simply stared at Njada, an undecipherable expression on her face.

 _Fuck her,_ Njada thought and looked away.

Athis walked past her, clapping a hand on her shoulder. The sore one. She stifled a grimace, alongside with the impulse to break the elf's nose. The Dunmer then walked to Vilkas still on the ground, offered the man his hand and pulled him up. He clapped him on the shoulder as well, but to no apparent reaction. Vilkas just stared at Njada, sullen.

 _Fuck him, too_.

Njada turned her back to the practice-ground, started dusting off her clothes. Athis walked up behind her. He was about to lay his hand on her shoulder, when she shot him with a look of pure, undiluted venom. He quickly withdrew the hand.

"Yes, yes," he went on, regardless. "Quite entertaining! If it wasn't for—"

"Shut it, elf." Njada said, and started to walk off.

"Hey, now girl," said Ria, her eyes animated by drink. "We're just saying it was a good fight! You should be happy for—"

" _Happy_?" snapped Njada, making Ria shy back. She ignored the frowning looks from the others. "Happy for what, a tie?" She waved her arms around peevishly. "What's that?" Before Ria got a chance to reply, she continued, "Well, I'll tell you what it's _not_. It's not a victory—not at all, in fact. So you can just keep your _tie_ and your _happy_ , alright?"

At that, she stormed back into the mead hall.


	4. Schooling

**Chapter 4: Schooling**

Only a couple hours into the day and already well on her way to developing a downright rotten mood, Njada marched into the mead hall, slamming the doors shut behind her. The only thing making her feel better at the moment was the prospect of what was waiting for her in the chest next to her bed . . .

She suppressed a justified little grin. Better not let anyone get any whiff of the secret she was hiding. She picked up her pace, yearning to see her treasure again.

"Njada."

She came to an abrupt stop, gnashing her teeth.

 _Of course!_

Turning around, she pasted on something at least resembling a convivial little simper.

Aela was standing at the door, looking less than friendly herself. She hardly ever seemed to crack a smile, that woman. She softly pulled the door close behind her. "I'd like a word with you."

"Uh-huh," Njada said with forced nonchalance.

 _Shit._

Aela stalked toward her— _glide_ was more like it, as her approach did not make so much as a squeak on the floorboards. She wore a suggestion of a frown, and the way the green warpaint there was flaking bespoke of it being a more than uncommon expression on her.

"What about?" Njada cursed her cracking voice.

Aela stopped right in front of her, locked her gaze with concerned eyes. She breathed out long through her nose. "I am concerned," she said slowly. "About your, ah, behavior lately."

Njada opened her eyes wide. "Oh?" she managed to recover some stability in her voice. "What's the problem?" She did her best to appear surprised, although she obviously was not in the least.

Aela nodded. "Yes. I of course know you for your individual temper, and that's fine as it goes. But it has seemed to go a bit further than that lately. I worry it has started to affect the dynamics of our group. Is there something—" she frowned more deeply, "—troubling you?"

 _You mean other than your pretentious prattling?_

Njada shook her head. "No. I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."

Aela the Huntress studied her for a few seconds that seemed to stretch into infinity. "I see," she said then. "Are you sure? Because, as you know, Farkas and I have gone through great pains to keep this group together and functional. Talos knows it is hard work at times, but we've managed. We've kept up the harmony. And I have no intention of letting anyone's personal grievances get in the way of that harmony. Do you understand?"

Her voice was taking on a more and more accusatory tone.

"Of course," Njada said painstakingly, the weight of uninvited guilt pressing on her diaphragm. "Like I said, I'm not sure what you mean." She tried to give her head a shake indicating perplexity, but her accursed cranium felt heavy somehow. _Co-operate, you!_

Aela swallowed and narrowed her eyes a trifle. "That's what you said. But I'm not sure I quite believe you."

That was as passive a way of saying "you lying sack of shit" as Njada had ever heard. She felt a jolt of indignation.

"Is that so?" she said between clenched teeth.

"Yes," replied Aela, nodding. "And I'm not about to stand here and try to pry out of you what it is that is bothering you." Her voice was winding tighter by the word. "But I will tell you this: either deal with it, talk to someone about it—whatever it takes—or then you work on keeping it better hidden. Cause the last thing this place needs is unchecked personal traumas. Do you understand me?"

She might have just as well slapped Njada across the face. She actually felt her face sting, cheeks getting hotter.

"I don't know—" she started. There just didn't seem to be any place not desperate for her words to go.

Luckily Aela wasn't letting her get any in. "And what's more—" She was officially schooling her now "—you have to remember that we are a _group_ first and foremost. As as it is, you have to work as a part of it. If you can't bring yourself to do that—well, then I just don't know what to tell you."

 _Yes you do, you'd like to tell me to leave here and never be seen again. Isn't that right, you eerie, hypocritical witch?_

"I see," Njada managed.

"Good," Aela said after a pause. "Then I believe we are understanding each other alright?"

"I . . ." Njada deflected the vehement desire bubbling inside her, the desire to argue fiercely. She knew she had no proper argument. Aela—curse her—was perfectly right, of course. She had a habit of that.

"I understand."

There was obviously never a question of whether Aela was even going to try to understand _her_. This was a one way road, all about putting the underling in her place. It hardly qualified as unfair. It was just . . . bullshit.

Just another day around here.

"Excellent," Aela said, smiling triumphantly. "Now, we're going to go to The Bannered Mare for some meads. I trust you're joining us?"

It wasn't even an offer, really.

"Yes, of course," Njada replied. "I'll just stop and get something from my bunk and I'll be right behind you."

"Good," Aela said, and turned around.

Njada watched the woman's distancing back. "Bitch," she muttered.

Aela stopped in her tracks.

 _Aw, crap!_

She slowly turned to look over her shoulder. "Sorry, did you say something?"

Njada shook her head. "Nope, nothing."

Aela stared her a few chilling seconds, blinking. "Oh, good."

Then she was out the door.

Njada breathed out in both relief and suppressed anger. For a moment she could do nothing but stand there and try not to scream out her frustration. She felt cold and stiff, and it was actually a close thing that she didn't start to shake.

She was hard pressed to admit that in addition to her irritation toward the woman, she was also genuinely scared of her—one of the very people, in fact, she'd go as far as to say that about. Something about Aela's cold wan eyes gave her that undefinable chill of dread. She didn't even need to raise her voice at all to give you the distinct impression she could just tear you to pieces if she so decided.

Njada sighed, and turned to continue on her original trek, when she saw the kid. He was standing in the corner of the room, next to a table with a wet rag in his hand, staring at her.

She hadn't even noticed him there, the quiet little rat-pup.

"What are _you_ looking at?" she snarled.

The boy blinked. "I think it's unfair, you know."

"What?"

"The way she just treated you," he replied. "It's not fair."

"I don't recall asking you to weigh in." She pointed her finger sharply. "Less eavesdropping, more tables-wiping!"

Cub looked surprised. "But I just—"

"Keep you snout out of grown-up business, alright!" Njada said, continuing to walk away.

Hroar hung his head in resignation."Yes, Ma—"

Njada snapped around. "And do _not_ call me 'Madame'!"

The kid was smart enough to keep from responding that time, and—grumpier than ever—Njada marched downstairs.

* * *

"Eavesdropping," Hroar muttered, trying to scrub off the bread crumbs crusted onto the tabletop. "Like it's _my_ fault you don't pay attention."

The crud wouldn't budge, as if permanently pasted there with god know how many months' worth of spilled ale and mead, while the dark cloud hanging over his head was getting bigger and drabber. Didn't anyone ever clean around here? What was the purpose of having a maidservant in the first place?

And all the while the cross, disapproving face of Njada Stonearm loomed in front his eyes. It was clear she was only taking her frustration out on him. They were not so different, him and her; both looked down upon and treated unfairly. If only there was some way he could bring her to see it.

He'd of course seen the whole affair peaking out the window, the fight between Njada and Vilkas. And what he'd seen had only served to confirm what he'd already suspected: that this was a special lady indeed. The way she'd moved—so elegant and strong—was like watching an exquisite work of art unravel right in front of your eyes. When she fought, she made it look like _dancing_.

Clearly she must have been the greatest fighter of them all. How did the others not see it? Were they all blind, or just plain stupid? And why was Aela the Huntress so mean to her? As far as Hroar could see, Njada had done no wrong.

His stomach clenched up with guilt, thinking along those lines. After all, what was he, a mere whelp, to criticize his saviors? What did he claim to even know about them?

Well, perhaps _savior_ was a bit of an exaggeration, but it was clear he already owed them a great deal, simply giving him the chance.

 _The chance of what, breaking my back trying to cleanse their filth?_

He sighed. One way or another he'd have to show Njada—show them _all_ —that he was made of the right stuff. But, as it was, he could not even get these damned crumbs off the table.

He started then, when he heard a clonking sound. Looking up, he saw Torvar, slumping on the same chair he'd been on yesterday, his forearms braced against the table and his dirty hair hanging down in front of his eyes. Hroar had not heard him coming at all, he'd pussyfooted there so silently from nowhere. Like a ghost. And with his face all pallid, he sort of looked like one too.

The man did not look like he wanted to be bothered, so Hroar just kept wiping the table, leaving the crumbs to soak for a minute while going on to wipe underneath all the plates, goblets, and empty bottles.

The man stirred after a minute.

"Could you _please_ make a little less noise?" he rasped.

"Oh," Hroar replied. "Sorry."

He did his best to clean quieter, though he didn't think he'd been making all that much noise in the first place.

"You're a good lad, aren't you?" Torvar said a moment later in his half-whisper.

Hroar stopped. He fought back a sudden terror risen upon those words. He'd heard them many times before.

Grelod . . .

 _Don't go there!_

Like the pain from an old wound, he'd have to learn to leave such things in the past where they belonged.

"Ah, I suppose so, sir," he said uncertainly.

The man snorted, then winced as if the doing so hurt his head. "Sir," he muttered in either amusement or great pain, or perhaps both. "Long time since anyone called me that."

"What do they call you, then?" Hroar asked, feeling like it was probably not the smart thing to do.

The man gave him a long bloodshot look. "I doubt you've ever even _heard_ all the words they call me. I know _I_ haven't. Still . . . " He sniffed, grabbed the full bottle in front of him and took a long gulp. "I'd say I've just about earned them all."

"Oh, sorry," Hroar muttered for lack of anything more eloquent. He went back to wiping the table.

"Not as sorry as I am," the man mumbled. He finished up the bottle with a quick flick of the wrist and went for another one.

After a moment of awkward silence, Hroar was nearly done with the table, hoping he'd be out of the situation soon.

After the third bottle he'd gotten down in a rapid succession, the man once more addressed Hroar.

"Don't ever take up the drink, boy," he said. "She's a tough lover."

Hroar blinked. "Well, I wasn't planning on it."

Torvar studied him, then nodded, lifting the bottle to his lips. "Good." He sipped. "That's good."

But although the man seemed content with that reply, Hroar didn't continue his wiping, but instead lay the rag on the table. "Couldn't you just quit?" he asked.

Torvar's eyes went wide. "Quit? Ha!" He finished his bottle with a shake of his head. "One doesn't simply 'quit.'"

Hroar shrugged. "Why not?"

This time the man looked at him more carefully, as if inspecting whether he was being messed with. But Hroar was not playing with the man. He simply did not understand. It appeared as if the man deciphered as much, because he just shook his head, snorting. Like adults often did when they found what you said ridiculous somehow.

"Boy, when you learn a bit more about the ways of this world, you won't be asking such silly questions no more."

Of course Hroar was not entirely clueless about "the ways of this world". He knew the drink had a strange power to enthrall some, to tie its little finger around them and never let go. Not as long as they lived, at least. But as to why, he'd never understood. Perhaps this man could explain.

At any rate, he was rapidly gaining the upper hand on his initial slump, the beers having invigorated him somewhat. He had now produced a bottle of brandy, and was looking around the table for a clean cup to pour it in. Ultimately he settled for a big swig straight off the bottle. After which he winced, and for a second looked as if he might hurl. But he managed to keep it in.

For a while, Hroar silently watched the man go about his recovery process. "So, why can't you quit?" he asked then.

The man looked up, almost like he'd forgotten all about Hroar standing there. "I dunno. Why can't _you_ stop asking stupid questions?" He barked a dry laugh. "No, I'm sorry. You're a good kid." He took another long drink.

Still not answering the question.

Hroar stirred impatiently. "No, really—"

"You tell _me_ ," Torvar interrupted. "Ever felt like you're in the wrong place at the wrong time— _every_ where and _every_ time?"

"How do you mean?"

"How I mean," the man said after another swig and wince, "is I happen to have an eye for people, and I think I recognize a little bit of me in you."

"That so?"

Torvar nodded. "That so." He looked hard at Hroar. "Well? Am I right?"

Hroar frowned. "About what?"

The man shook his head, and rolled his eyes. Then he took a longer swig, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. Afterwards he grinned at Hroar. "You don't belong here," he said.

Hroar felt as the man had just slapped him. "I don't?"

"No," Torvar said, shaking his head. "And neither do I. And yet," he fanned out his arms, "here we are."

"Yeah . . ." This conversation did not appear to be going anywhere. Hroar started to think he should just make up an excuse and leave the man to his drink.

But Torvar didn't seem to be quite done. "Don't let them get to you, hear me?"

"Them?"

Torvar gestured at the empty room. "The people here. The Companions."

"Get to me? I'm not sure they've tried to—"

"Ha! They'll try, trust me. They will most certainly try. But men like you and me?" he waved his dirty finger between them. "We're un _getto_ able. Am I right?" He cocked his head back and laughed. "Yeah, I'm right. I know I'm right."

"Okay . . .," Hroar said slowly. "Well, it's been nice chatting with you."

"Huh?" Torvar said, as if he had already forgotten about him. "Oh, yeah. Sure."

At least it didn't seem like he was going to try to engage Hroar again. He was more focused on trying to empty the bottle of brandy. Hroar took that as his cue. He quickly gathered up the remaining crumbs from the table into his hand and dropped them, alongside the rag, into the bucket at his feet, then made to leave.

Torvar called one more time at his back. "Remember: just because we don't belong, don't mean they can just treat us any which way. Am I right?" He laughed. "Yeah, I _know_ I'm right."

Then he went about continuing to get drunker, and Hroar went on to clean the bedroom at the north end of the building.

* * *

Muttering a litany of curses, Njada stomped downstairs and toward the sleeping quarters. "'Harmony'," she muttered. "You can shove your _harmony_ right up your ass."

Was there any limit to the woman's dishonesty? Harmony— _seriously_? All she'd ever done was to stalk around the premises scaring the crap out of anyone who would not comply with what passed for her standards of order and cohesion.

Njada had no proof of it, but she suspected that Aela was the one who originally drove Torvar into spending all his days with the bottle instead of taking part in any missions. It had been months since he'd even last gone on a quest that wasn't to acquire more hooch. Why'd they even keep him around anymore? Njada was sure that it was simply to let everyone know what happened to anyone who wouldn't toe the line. It wouldn't be just out of the group anymore, no—you'd get turned into a laughingstock, an example to everyone. The communal fool to make everyone else feel better about themselves. "Whew, at least I'm not _that_ guy!"

She shook her head in mute rage. And now Aela—and to an extent, Farkas—had gotten everyone all obsessed about catching this _Red Viper_ fellow. And so far the man with the facetious sobriquet had proven to be like a ghost. Whenever they'd gotten a lead on him, it had turned out like the latest fiasco. A bunch of low-level thugs, more cattle for slaughter than adversaries worthy of fighting.

Njada was actually really starting to suspect the man was just a ploy invented by some more-clever-than-average bandit to wipe out competition. The picture of the man—a moderately handsome Nord—spread around for identification could have pretty much been anyone. Or no-one.

Who was he even supposed to be? Some middle-ranking bandit chief up and coming in the underworld. There were persistent rumors going around of him having strong ties to both the Thieves' Guild and the Dark Brotherhood, both of which had been rapidly regaining in strength as of late, and which were actually rumored to have joined forces under shared leadership. This even though the latter outfit had all but vanished since the assassination of the Emperor Titus Mede II.

That in itself had been an ugly affair. Some particularly unpleasant Imperial snoop had been after them for half a year without result. Everybody knew it had been an agent of the Brotherhood, but no one could get to them. If they used to be shady before, they were certainly that nowadays. Yet, everybody feared them more than they ever had.

All and all, with the rampant lawlessness these days, you'd think it was a profitable time to be hunting for bounties. And it was, or _should_ have been; but the efforts of Aela had seen to it that the individual members of the Companions were no longer freely able to take on personal quests. To do so was to risk incurring the displeasure of the highest ranking members. That meant Aela and Farkas, especially the former. This even after all the the talk of the Harbinger not leading them—of _no-one_ actually leading them.

It was all just so much hypocritical hogwash.

 _The Harbinger_ , Njada thought, scoffing. _Talk about hogwash!_

She arrived at her bed. No one else was there in the sleeping quarters, just as she'd hoped. Of course, the Companions had been suffering from insufficient manning—and _wo_ manning—lately; yet Aela and Farkas seemed to be suffering from chronic mistrust, not letting any new members join in a long while. It was not like there hadn't been eager souls for it, but no one seemed to be good enough for them.

Njada knelt down and opened the lock of the chest next to her bunk. The loot was there waiting for her. She smiled, picking up the adorned weapon and inspecting it in the light of the oil lamp on her dresser. It truly was a beautiful work of craftsmanship. Though likely quite old, not as much as a dent was marring the surface of the blade. It was almost as if it had never been used, which seemed unlikely somehow. With its perfect balance and magnificent incisiveness, it was practically begging to draw blood. Even a fool could use a weapon like this to her advantage.

 _A fool, you say?_

"Shut up," Njada muttered.

She could no doubt fetch a good price for such an exquisite article, and those gems embedded in the hilt surely wouldn't hurt either. But there was just one problem. The problem begun with the fact that she'd had to hide her loot in the first place. And that was that the Companions had "agreed" to turn all loot acquired during quests communal. That meant no one member was technically allowed to take personal loot. It hardly needed to pointed out that Njada had opposed vehemently implementing such a clause. It was the stupidest fucking bullshit she'd ever come across in her life, and she'd said as much out loud.

Aela had obviously not taken her protesting too well. Keeping her true feelings hidden behind that haughty mask of hers, she'd informed her that the proposition would "of course" be subjected to a vote. Then, with a cold sweep of her eye, she'd taken the number of everyone in the room, asked in a quiet voice, with obvious imperious undertones, if anyone else had an objection. Asked for anyone who did to come up and say so.

No one had.

The gods-damned cowards!

So of course the vote was a walkover, and from thence on everyone was obliged to turn in all loot, and the profit was shared evenly. Njada had marched out after the vote, and though Aela had spared her a scolding that time, it was obvious she did not forget. She'd kept an eye on her ever since, just waiting to get a chance to set her straight.

Well, she'd had her chance today, and she'd taken it. Njada's mood turned back to rotten-ale sour just thinking back to it.

 _Bitch!_

But it didn't matter. Aela—or anyone else for that matter—would never know she'd kept this one to herself. She'd sell it before they got a chance and hide the money. Hell, she'd dig a hole in the ground to stash the gold if need be.

The only problem, then, was that there weren't many people in Whiterun she could turn to. The obvious choice would have normally been Eorlund Gray-Mane; the Companions' masterful smith was always eager to buy anything metal, no matter how lowly of worth. The commonplace objects he'd simply melt for materials for his own collections, the more worthy pieces he'd keep for himself, either for personal use or retail.

But Gray-Mane was a Companion, even if he did not officially belong to the group. If Njada went to him, chances were the honorable old coot would not only refuse to buy it off her, but might also go to Aela about it.

That was a risk she was not willing to take.

Her second option would have been the Warmaiden's, the smithy/store located by the main gate. But the problem there was that Adrianne Avenicci and Ulfberth War-Bear, the couple who ran the place, were also in close relations with the Companions, and knew about the ban on personal loot. They'd also most certainly get suspicious if she approached.

So it was the excact same problem with them as with Gray-Mane.

And that left only one man. One, unfortunately, whose guts Njada happened to vehemently despise, but who was still her only hope. At least if she didn't want to travel out of town to sell, or go to the travelling Khajiit merchants. And neither of those two things was she inclined to do. So she'd just have to swallow her bile _ **.**_

Njada sighed. Any chance for her mood to significantly improve without some lubrication had now been ground down to its foundations. She dropped the dagger back into the chest and slammed the lid shut. She made sure to lock the thing and then headed upstairs. She wasn't in the mood for socializing, but could sure use a mead or two.

Or ten.

* * *

Hroar crashed on his bed, exhausted. Cleaning up after a gang of mead-swilling killers had turned out to be hard work, it had. How in the world swinging a broom and wiping dust could feel like taking on a small army of Draugr was inconceivable to him.

Not that cleaning had been the only task he'd been assigned to. Just as the Companions proper had been off enjoying themselves over mead, the ever grumpier Njada had caught him hard by the shoulder—though being touched by her had certainly been its own reward, even it it had hurt a bit—and told him to go downstairs to dust off the beds once he was done scrubbing the floor of the mead hall.

 _I'll show you how to properly dust the beds!_ he'd thought.

Then Njada had frowned, as if reading his mind, and he'd hastily given his meek acquiescence.

"Good," she'd said. "And keep your hands off my stuff!" Then she'd stormed off.

Njada Stormfoot, they should have called her.

After Hroar had been done with that particular grueling task, and as the Companions still had not returned, he'd gone to his room. Now, as he lay there all spent, he couldn't help but wonder if this would turn out like he'd planned after all. Of course it _was_ his first day and all, but no one had said one word about starting his training as a warrior. Had he mistaken, did they only want him for their maid? The prospect was chilling.

Surely that was not the case. They would soon have to interview him, and then they'd know. They would find out that for the better part of a year now, Hroar had practiced a lot with the sword.

Well, with a stick, actually, but the idea was the same.

In any case, he'd gotten good. So good in fact that after a while, nobody at the orphanage had been able to beat him. Nobody besides Runa, that was, but he didn't bear a grudge. She had been his best friend, after all.

Runa . . .

The only thing he'd been jealous of her for was that she had been the only one to actually see the death of Grelod. She'd been right there when the killer had struck, sneaked behind the crone and sliced through her wiry, accursed neck. A lonely witness. She'd kept tight lipped about the whole thing, wouldn't say a word, no matter how much the others had tried coaxing her.

Hroar had been there alongside the rest that night, found her staring at the body, a strange mix of horror, exhilaration, and intrigue in her eyes. She'd looked at them standing there, cocked her head, and said, "Kill one person, and you can solve so many problems. I wonder at the possibilities!"

She'd put it in words what they'd all realized then. And it had changed them for good. Especially her and Hroar. Ever since they'd talked about the future, what they were planning to do. Killing had a place in their plans, however you looked at it. Runa started talking about becoming an assassin, joining the Dark Brotherhood. Hroar had treated such talk with a good measure of disdain. He'd not want to kill someone just because he got paid for it. No, he'd known from thence on he was destined to become a fierce warrior. He'd help rid the world of the cruel and the unjust, so making it a better place to live for the good and the just. The world might just have been rid of one monster, but more work needed doing.

He bit his lip. He could still hear her voice, he could. The voice of Grelod. The screaming, that he had gotten used to in time. But then, in the dark stillness of the sleeping hall, as she'd knelt next to his bed, speaking so softly . . . " _Such a good, strong boy._ "

The only times she'd ever uttered such words.

Then her cold, skeletal hand. Stroking his head. Slithering underneath his blanket. Her revolting touch.

It happened to all of them in turn, that much was clear. But they never talked about it. Ever. Bound by a seal of shame, rendering them mute.

And then she was dead. The happiest day of their little lives.

Hroar closed his eyes, expelling the dark shadow of his memories. He'd kill that witch himself, a thousand times over if he got the chance. But she was gone, never to return.

More villains would come.

He would be there for them.


	5. Bullies and Banter

**Chapter 5: Bullies and Banter**

The bandit—a big, ugly Orc it was—had gone down on his knees. It had been a fierce fight, but Hroar had managed to force the brute back, turn the gargantuan creature's weakness to his own advantage. And now it was time to finish this. He raised his axe high up in both hands, took careful aim, and let out a massive bellow.

Down the weapon came. It roared as it split the air, and landed right in the middle of the bandit's bulky head, cleaving the skull in half. The sound it made was a loud crack, and Hroar closed his eyes to keep the blood out of them. The halves of the dead fiend's skull fell on both sides of him, and the resulting clatter was like blocks of wood.

Afterwards, he leaned on his legs, breathing heavily. Almost nothing felt better than a good battle. Nothing but victory, that was.

Then there was a clapping sound from behind him, and he turned to look. It was Ria, standing there with a blank expression, slowly and mockingly beating her hands together.

"Bravo, killer," she said. "You sure showed that Draugr who's boss."

"Orc," replied Hroar, surly.

"Huh?"

"It was an Orc. A bandit."

"I see," Ria replied with no particular investment. "Be that as it may—if you turn out to be half as efficient at fighting as you are at chopping firewood, maybe we'll still get some use out of you."

There was already a big pile of split wood all around Hroar. There ought to have been, as he'd been at it for the better part of an hour now.

He motioned at the pile. "So, is this enough?"

Ria looked around. "Not by a long shot," she said. "We do use a lot of it. But maybe it'll do for now."

Hroar sighed in mixed relief and disappointment and sunk the axe into the chopping block, leaving it there.

Ria smiled. "Now be a good lad and go fetch water out of the well, why don't you? I don't know where that Njada went, but she should be the one telling you these things."

Hroar sighed, casting his gaze down on the ground, but said nothing. If this was how it was going to be, by gods he was going to accept it.

"Why is it that you're so eager to get to kill folks anyway?" Ria asked.

Hroar looked up. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you know. Isn't that what you came here for? To be one of us?"

Finally, someone who understood!

"Well, yeah," he said. "Isn't it obvious? I wanna make a difference."

"A difference?" Ria curled her lip. "Well, if busting heads and cutting throats accounts for 'difference', I'm not sure what has been going on until now." She gave a mocking laugh. "No, I believe that's just business as usual."

"But," insisted Hroar," surely it's different when, you know, you're in the right?"

Ria studied him flatly. "Oh, yes, for sure. That's all it really takes. To go from killing just for money and actually coming to enjoy it—the conviction that you're _right_. Congratulations, kid: you sound like you're well on your way." She shot him a lopsided smile. "Even if so far all you've chopped down is a bunch of timber."

Hroar felt his cheeks redden, but could not for the life of him come up with a sufficient response.

Ria waved a hand. "Ah, never mind. You've got plenty of time to think about it. Now, how about that water?"

Chagrined, Hroar simply nodded. He walked past the woman regarding him with an amused smirk, not granting her the satisfaction of meeting her eyes. To get to the well at the market place, he walked around the mead hall rather than going through it, lest he run into another person trying to anoint him with words of wisdom.

* * *

Njada stood a good while in front of the store, biting on her lower lip, opening and closing her fists. She didn't usually get this balky, but some people . . .

Her hesitation was broken by a commotion in the direction of the Mare. A young gentleman of the haggard sort and of the solidly inebriated variety was being politely yet sternly ushered out of the establishment. A burly Nord holding the man by the neck and the tail of the skirt of his leather armor heaved him forward and tossed down the front steps. The man rolled down, ending up on his face on the cobblestones.

The giant Nord was then nice enough to provide the younger man some words of council for his journey ahead. "And don't show yer ugly mug around here again if you value yer life!" he growled, before taking his glowering aspect back inside.

Njada had to smack her dry mouth just looking at the direction of the tavern. Despite the remedy she'd ingested right upon waking, the dust of yesterday was still well with her. The man didn't appear to be getting up, so she, along with everyone else around, soon grew bored of the sight and turned back toward the store door.

Letting out a long breath, she shook her shoulders. "All right . . ."

Upon opening the door, she heard the familiar, hated voice, blathering on.

"Oh yes, indeed," the voice was telling some young man who, judging by his outfit, looked too rich and, by his face, too stupid for his own good, "they don't have these anywhere else in the _whole world._ Far as I know, anyway. And I should know!"

A wide and most decisively disingenuous smile was spread across the merchant's broad face as he chuckled between his clenched teeth. He waved his hands enthusiastically while he spoke, and the stupid little ponytail at the back of his head danced right and left with that massive, bobbing melon of his.

"No sir!" he continued. "Made by the very Ayeleids themselves during the—say— _third_ century of the First Era, and survived hardly touched to this day in the secret vaults of one Gazalem Nightvale, an eccentric collector from Valenwood. In fact—" He lowered his voice. "I've been talking to a certain enthusiast about this and he was _very_ interested. But I'm willing to reconsider, should you have the sufficient cash on you on the spot . . . "

Njada saw then what they were talking about. Nothing but an ordinary shortsword far as she could see. Quite possibly from Eorlund Grey-mane's own stock. He made those as practice pieces, and was occasionally even known to hand them out for free to children and the like when in a good mood. Or drunk. Which, coincidentally, was generally when his mood was the best.

"Immensely valuable!" the smirking twit went on. "Look here!" He leaned close to the blade, beckoning the bemused looking would-be customer to do likewise. "See these markings here?"

The affluent fool nodded, his eyes wide.

"Now, I can't say for sure, but it is speculated they are words of an ancient merish blessing. One that will grant whoever wields this baby a fortune unrivaled and will lead him into certain victory. Of course, that could be nonsense, too. But still . . ."

Now Njada was sure it must have been one of Earlund's swords, for he would sometimes carve obscenities in ancient Nordic onto his blades. Again—when drunk, usually.

The Breton merchant twirled the weapon in the air, grabbed it by the hilt and thrusted it toward the man, who shied back a step. "I'd say only a true warrior is worthy to wield this beauty. Are _you_ a true warrior, by any chance?"

The man shifted, exactly in a way a young man particular about his honor would when his worthiness was put into question. Just as he was meant to, of course.

The proud young dolt drew breath to reply.

"Belethor!" barked Njada, not able to listen any longer.

The young man started and spun around. He blinked, obviously not knowing what to make of the sight of a frowning woman with arms crossed standing behind him.

Belethor, on the other hand, simply looked past the man, both his smirk and the cool, calculating gaze in his narrow eyes intact.

"Well, what a coincidence!" he said. "Speaking of great warriors. The Companions honor my humble shop with their presence!"

"Not the Companions," Njada corrected. "Just me."

"All the better," said Belethor. "The strongest, fastest, bravest, and—dare I add—the most _beautiful_ one of them all! What have I possibly done to win this privilege?"

She was going to answer when the other man cut in.

"Hold up, now," he said. "We were just about to do business when this . . . girl interrupts us. I will not stand for this sort of insult."

Oh yes, of course. The young buck had yet to rattle his antlers.

Njada bothered just enough to raise a lazy eyebrow. "A _girl_?"

"An _insult_?" chimed Belethor.

"Yes," replied the buck, his voice climbing higher with indignation, "yes, a _girl_. And yes, an _insult_. And I'll have you know—" he addressed Njada, "that my name is Cosmus Flavonius, the son of Aebondeius Flavonius, and I will not tolerate such an affront to my honor!"

Njada took a step forwards, standing eye to eye with the man, and said with a low voice, "And _I_ will have _you_ know—" The man winced, doubtless from the old mead in her breath. "—that the last uppity _boy_ who spoke to me in that way? I sliced off his cock and rammed it down his throat."

The man couldn't keep his eyes from going wider, though he clearly tried to keep up a cool exterior.

Njada gave him her best menacing smile. "Carved him a nice cunny, I did. Left his fruits in their place, though, and to this day they don't know quite _what_ to call him." She paused. "Or _her?_ "

The young fool's nostril's flared. "And you expect me to be intimidated?" His voice cracked, and it wasn't out of anger anymore.

"No," Njada replied with a shake of her head. "I expect you to be smart."

That, obviously, was way too much to ask.

Yet, after a loaded second or two of the man doing his best to hold her gaze, he tossed his head and scoffed. "I will not waste my good name on the likes of you." He shot the frowning merchant a contemptful look. "You, sir, just lost a good customer. Good day." One more look of feigned courage at smirking Njada, and he stormed out the door.

"And don't show your face around here again!" yelled Belethor after him. He then turned to Njada."An _insult_ ," he pshawed. "I'm about to give him the bargain of his worthless little life and he has the audacity—

"Save it," interrupted Njada. "You're not fooling _me_ with your balderdash and your worthless junk."

Belethor just raised an eyebrow at her but, to his honor, said nothing to try and excuse himself.

"Anyway," said Njada sighing and dug into her satchel. "I have something for you."

She pulled out the dagger, held it between them and watched for the merchant's initial reaction, the one he wouldn't be able conceal. And, sure enough, that certain gleam took the Breton's eyes, if only for a second.

The man reached out his hand, licking his lips, and Njada braced herself.

* * *

The forenoon sun beat down hot as Hroar trudged his way toward the market square. The empty buckets rattled against his ankles, the ropes on their handles so long they made contact with the stairs. Yet he couldn't be bothered to carry them any higher. Climbing up these steps two short days ago felt like a distant memory. He'd felt so energized then, like his future was broad in front of him. How he felt like he was going to be the Companions' errand boy for the rest of his inglorious life.

The market was buzzing already, people doing their day's shopping, vendors yelling over each other, though for the most part it seemed clear to the people who they went to for what. Doubtless it was pretty much the same routine day after day. A tattered-looking man lay prone in front of the Bannered Mare, and everyone simply politely went around or stepped over him.

Hroar took note that the girl he'd seen that day—the one selling vegetables with her beauty of a mother—was there at the booth again. He made sure not to look a her as he walked past. To his mild satisfaction, though, he thought he could see in the corner of his eye that she was looking at him. He straightened his back and tried to look as much as he could like he was treating his water-fetching duties with pride.

At the well, he set down the buckets and lowered the one attached to the windlass into the depths below. Once he felt it fill with water, he started to turn the crank. The crank was a bit stiff, which made the work somewhat onerous, making it feel like the bucket was filled with sand instead of water.

The cylinder groaned and creaked, and beads of sweat started gathering on Hroar's brow in the sun's heat. He felt embarrassed by the fact that a routine task generally ran by maidservants should prove so cumbersome for him, the would-be great warrior. It wasn't as if he hadn't done this countless times before. Still, he tried to conceal his troubles as best as he could, while hoping the girl wasn't watching.

Then, finally, up the bucket came, and Hroar poured its contents into one of the others. He stole a quick glance toward the booth, but the girl was in the process of picking vegetables for some decrepit old man—not looking towards Hroar at all.

Good.

He lowered the bucket again, hoping to get the whole thing over with as swiftly as possible.

Once both of his buckets were filled, he had to sit down at the well's ring for a short breather, to wipe off the sweat now all over his face. He did, however, make sure to turn facing away from the girl while at it.

Toward the path leading to the main wall, a few paces away from the well, his eye caught a curious sight. Another girl, a Redguard perhaps a year or two older than him, was squatting on the cobblestones, holding in her hand a big hunk of rock. Her brown eyes seemed to be frantically searching the ground for something, and every now and then it was as if she caught a sight of it, and then the rock in her hand struck down and the girl grit her teeth. Afterwards she looked at the ground, appearing satisfied, then started over.

Hroar frowned. Was she _killing bugs_? She looked a bit old for an activity he himself had gotten over by the time he'd turned nine. He kept his eyes on the scene, wondering passingly if the girl was one of those "touched by the divines". That was, had fallen on her head at birth.

Then, as the girl's face came up from confirming another kill, her eyes caught his. She frowned, then cocked her head.

"What are _you_ looking at?"

 _Uh, oh._

Hroar quickly looked away, but saw it in the corner of his eye that the girl had gotten onto her feet. She started walking towards him.

"I said," she said, louder now, " 'what are you looking at?' "

Hroar looked up, using his hand his as a shade against the sun. She looked quite a bit bigger than she had squatting.

"Nothing," he said, going for nonchalance. He also got on his feet to look the girl in the eye.

"Nothing, you say," the girl snarled. "Calling me _nothing_?"

"Uh," replied Hroar.

"Huh? Are you, huh?" The girl accentuated her words by shoving Hroar's shoulder a couple times.

"There really is no need for this," he said in his best diplomatic way.

"There really is no need for this'," the girl mocked in a high pitched voice and shoved him again, harder. This time he had to take a steadying step back. "What are you, a _chicken_?" She added the necessary poultry imitation to go with the goading.

Hroar felt anger flash inside him. He didn't appreciate being called a coward. "Now, you just wait—"

The girl slapped him in the face. It stung, and Hroar was stunned by the sudden attack. His cheek burned, and not only from being hit.

"Wait for what?" the girl said. "For you to grow a pair of stones? I don't have all my life!" She tried to slap him a again, but this time got his hand in the way. "Come on!" she yelled. "Fight back!"

But for some strange reason, Hroar could not bring himself to do so. Instead he just lifted his hands up to protect his head, as the girl kept swatting at him, yelling curses as insults.

"Braith!" someone yelled, and the hits stopped coming.

Hroar looked up, and realized it was the vegetable girl that had been yelling. She walked toward them, looking irritated, and the other girl looked back, equally irked.

"What are you up to again, Braith?" the vegetable-girl said, "leave the kid alone"

A _kid_! This girl couldn't have been a day older that he was—who was _she_ to call _him_ a kid!

"Well, well," jeered Braith, "saved by a girl." She gave Hroar one more shove.

"Attacked by one, too," Hroar replied, though he had no idea how that was supposed to make it sound any better.

"Why don't you go bully some one your own size," the girl said.

Hroar _was_ her size! At least almost. And he was wider! Maybe.

Braith looked from the girl to Hroar and back, then scoffed. "I've got better things to do with my time anyway. You two can go make out or something, I'm late for sword practice with my pa." She jabbed her finger in Hroar's face. "And you. You'd better not run into me without little girls protecting your sorry hide."

She marched off, and Hroar did his best to gather up the remains of his dignity. While he was doing that the girl turned on her heel and started back towards the booth.

Hroar dashed after her. "Hey, wait up!"

The girl stopped and turned around. "What more do you want?"

"I, uh," Hroar was taken aback by her bluntness. "Why'd you just walk away?"

The girl shrugged. "What was I supposed to do? I chased the bully away. Mission accomplished."

"Mila," called the girl's mother. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, sure Ma," just talking with this kid a minute."

 _Kid—_ again!

Then, to Hroar's discomfort, the woman's beautiful eyes met with his. She frowned, looking concerned. "Are you alright, boy?"

"Uh, yeah," Hroar stuttered. "Yes, ma'am, I'm fine." He felt his cheeks burn big time.

The woman nodded, then said to her daughter, "Just come back to help me after you've talked with your little friend, okay."

"He's not my friend," replied Mila. Then she looked back at Hroar, seeming a bit irritated by his reaction to her mother. "So, what more _do_ you want?"

"I, uh." He really didn't know. Just didn't feel right having her walk off just like that. "I guess, um, well, I guess I wanted to say . . . um, thanks?"

Mila studied him for a long time. Then her expression softened a little. "Yeah, sure. Don't mention it. Braith bullies everyone, she probably just smelled your weakness."

 _Weakness_!

Hroar straightened up. "Hey! I'm not weak."

"Oh no?" Mila smiled. "Seemed to be having hard enough time with the well."

"The crank is stiff!" Hroar explained.

Mila raised an eyebrow. "Is it?"

"It is!"

"Well, be that as it may, you definitely didn't do anything to defend yourself. Few things rile up a bully more. Braith never gives me any trouble, and that's because she knows she can't push me around."

"I'm not a coward!" Hroar blurted, as if Mila had been accusing him of being one. She might as well have, she could have!

The girl raised that irritating brow again, just a hint. "No?"

"No, I'm not! I just . . . well, you know. Didn't want to hit a girl."

"You—" Mila wasn't able to finish, she bent over and giggled. "Oh, I see how it is! A big hero, are you?" She giggled some more.

Hroar felt his entire face turn angry red, but was too mad to find any words to defend himself with.

Mila calmed herself, and gave him an almost pitying look. "I get it. Why didn't I see it before?"

Hroar still couldn't think of anything to say, just stood there steaming with mute rage.

"What's your name?" the girl asked then.

"Hroar," he managed.

"What, Rourke?"

"Hroar," Hroar corrected. R."

She frowned. "What kind of name is that?"

"It's like the sound a lion makes. You know, _roar_!"

"I see, "replied Mila, smiling. "Don't you think _Meow_ would a bit more appropriate, though?"

 _That's it!_ "I won't just—" Hroar started, not sure what he'd say next.

Mila raised a calming hand. "Relax, I was just teasing you! _Divines_ but you're sensitive."

Hroar calmed down a bit, though was still very much offended.

The girl examined him a while, and a sly look formed on her face. "Look, I can see you'd like to try to impress me, convince me you're not a coward. Make an impression on a girl."

Make an—? No, she got him all wrong! He had no interest in trying to impress _her_! After all, why would he? She was just some . . . girl. Sure, suppose she was pretty enough, but in a very childish sort of manner.

But he could not bring himself to say it.

"I tell you what—look over there." Mila pointed past Hroar, and he followed her finger. She was pointing at one of the buildings standing at the corner of the market. "That's Belethor's Goods. Now Belethor is another bully; just a bigger, nastier one."

Hroar nodded. "Uh-huh."

Mila gave him a long, serious look. "You go in there, and take something without him noticing. Then bring it to me."

Hroar could hardly believe his ears. "You want me to _steal_? I'm going to be an apprentice of the Companions, not the Thieves' Guild!"

Mila shrugged. "I don't see the huge difference. Does a warrior not also need to be stealthy?"

"Well, I guess . . ."

"And does not a warrior need nerves of steel?"

"Of course!"

Mila smiled. "Alright, then. So those are the very same skills you need to be a good thief. Plus a thief steals things, a warrior steals lives. Not so different, I think."

Hroar could not deny there was truth to her words, despite actually wanting to.

Mila shrugged again. "Of course, if you're too nervous . . ."

"I'm not!"

She gave him a deep look. Her eyes were brown girded by gold, just like her mother's. "Do it, then."

Hroar wanted to tell her to do it herself. Wanted to walk away.

But he nodded.

Mila smiled. "Good. Now maybe if I like what you bring you'll get a kiss for your troubles—on the cheek."

Before Hroar had a chance to tell her he cared nothing for her kisses, she was already walking back to her vegetable booth.

He turned around, regarded the door of Belethor's Goods, suddenly feeling very foolish. He was no thief! But he'd not be called a coward, either. So he sighed, and started to walk towards the store.

 _Best just to get this over with_ , he thought. By gods, did he feel nervous!

As he was gathering his courage, someone swept pass him. "Out of my way kid!" that someone growled. It was the man who'd been laying on the ground. He gave Hroar an angry glare as he brushed past him. Hroar did not like the look of his eyes. A nasty pair of peepers they were! And, gods, did he reek awful!

Once the nasty man had gone, stalking uncertainly towards the main gate, Hroar focused again.

 _Okay, just relax. You can do this!_

But despite his own encouragement, he felt stiff with dread as he opened the door. It didn't help that the first thing he heard was a familiar voice. Yelling, as usual.

* * *

"Yeah," said Belethor, handing back the blade after examining it against the light. "I could give you as much as five hundred gold for it."

"You—" Njada's eyes bulged and every disparaging comment in the book tried to erupt from her throat all at once. "You'd give _what_!"

"Five hundred," repeated the Breton slime. "I'm afraid that's all it's worth. Generous even, I'd say."

It took a while for Njada to find the proper response. Then it came to her.

"You fucking bastard!" she yelled. "It's worth at least four times that, and you fucking _know_ it!"

"Now, now. There's no need to get obscene. I simply happen to disagree with your assessment." Belethor flashed a greasy grin. "That is not to say I don't see room for haggling, though. I say five-hundred and fifty."

"Two thousand!"

Belethor pretended to be thinking. "Six hundred."

"Two thousand!"

The merchant raised an eyebrow. "Now, you do know the meaning of the word 'haggle' do you not?"

Njada leaned closer, just stifling the urge to grab the man by the collar. Or throat. "Two. Fucking. Thousand. And not a penny less!"

Belethor shook his head, clicking his tongue. "I may not be able to teach you proper manners, but I _can_ teach you thing or two about commerce. If only you're willing to learn."

Njada crossed her arms, shot the merchant a murderous look. "Two thousand. That's my final word. You know it's worth it. More!"

Belethor shook his head again. "I just don't see it. Alright, a thousand."

"Belethor!" Njada's voice got shriller than she'd intended.

"That's my name," the man confirmed. "Known throughout the land. And not because I lack the eye for value, I might add."

"No, Njada admitted. "Not for that. Though neither have I heard it oft repeated without the word 'sneak' or 'cunt' added after it."

Belethor shrugged. "I can't help what the jealous say. Plus it hardly matters _how_ they speak of me, just as long as they _will_ speak of me. One-thousand and two-hundred, and that's nearing my final offer. "

Njada hung her head, shook it softly. "Two thousand," she muttered. Then she lifted her head, summoned her last gall. "Two thousand. Two thousand. Two thousand. _Two thousand_. How many times do you want me to say it?"

"Say it as often as you like, it still won't make it so. One thousand and three hundred. And that _is_ my final offer."

Then, at her moment of weakness, Njada almost agreed.

Almost.

"Fuck you, Belethor," she said and turned to walk away.

"Who else are you going to turn to?" called the man at her back. "Don't think I don't know why you came to me in the first place."

Njada turned back around slowly. She pointed her finger at the smugly smirking merchant. "You say anything about this to _anyone_ , and I'll come back and shove this dagger so deep up your ass you'll be shitting bits of steel for the rest of your days."

Belethor lifted his hands up, not losing a bit of his cocky attitude. "My lips are sealed, good lady. All that goes on around here is _strictly confidential_."

Njada gave a sullen nod. "Yeah, well it'd better."

As she spun around again, it was only then she took notice of Cub, standing by the basket of fruit located near the entrance. Even with his back turned to the room, he was easy to recognize by his stooped shoulders and his big ears.

"Cub," Njada said.

The kid turned, looking bewildered—though hardly very genuinely so.

"Njada! Didn't expect to run into you."

Njada frowned. "What are you doing here?"

* * *

"You fucking bastard!"

Initially Hroar was taken aback to have the first thing to greet him at Belethor's Goods be Njada's cantankerous tongue. He felt like he was already in trouble. But then, after he got over the surprise, he thought he could use the commotion to his advantage.

So he stepped all the way in.

The shopkeeper—Belethor, presumably—a tall man with sly features and a particularly indefatigable-looking grin on them, only quickly glanced at him entering, and then immediately directed his attention back to the cranky warrior woman in front of him. Hroar was actually quite impressed how the man didn't appear to be the least bit intimidated by Njada. He was certain he'd be crapping himself if the woman was yelling at _him_ like that.

They appeared to be in the middle of some heated haggling, and Hroar guessed they'd still be at for a while longer. Judging by Njada's shrill tone and the impenetrable smugness on the man's face, they would not be finding a common tune to sing anytime soon.

"Two thousand," demanded Njada.

"Six hundred," offered Belethor.

Nope, not any time soon.

Now was Hroar's chance! This was promising to go much better than he'd anticipated. Surely the gods were smiling upon him today . . .

He walked around the sidelines of the store, as if browsing, or possibly biding his time while waiting for a turn to talk with the merchant himself. In other words: not looking suspicious in the least. The only problem was, as it soon became obvious, that there really didn't seem to be much anything worth stealing; nothing but fruits and vegetables, the valuable stuff safely tucked away behind the counter. What would he possibly take back to Mila, an onion?

His time was running out! He stopped in front of a basket of assorted fruit. Something from there would have to do. But—a fruit?

 _Just grab one!_

He took a quick and surreptitious look over his shoulder, saw that Belethor's shrewd eyes were firmly fixed on Njada, then quickly reached his hand into the basket. It came out holding a big juicy apple. It would just have to do. Hroar tucked the fruit under his belt and covered it with his shirt, then prepared to take his thieving self out of the store as fast as he could without looking too fishy.

But then he heard Njada's testy footsteps behind him and froze.

 _Crap!_

Belethor said something to the woman to make her stop. Hroar could not make out any of the words for the sound of his own heart roaring in his ears. But in any case, the hot-tempered woman was not walking at him any more. If he was going to get out of here, it would have to be now.

He prepared to make a break for it.

"Cub," came Njada's voice behind him. She sounded surprised.

Hroar squeezed his eyes shut.

 _Uh oh._

He turned around, pasting on his best "I didn't expect to run into you" face.

"Njada! Didn't expect to run into you."

Njada frowned, looking particularly irked to see him there. "What are you doing here?"

"Ah, you know." He tried to give a shrug of total nonchalance but feared it looked more like a particularly vicious nervous tick. Sure felt like it. "Just browsing."

 _Now, what the hell?_

Luckily, instead of pressing the matter any further, Njada just rolled her eyes, said, "Well, whatever. But you've got work to do, so you get your ass back to Jorrvaskar when you're done with your 'browsing', aye?"

Hroar nodded dumbly. Gods, how beautiful she was!

Njada then took her divine, albeit thorny, beauty elsewhere, without as much as a second glance at Hroar.

"Come again once you've thought it over!" called Belethor after her.

Before she exited though the door, she replied to the merchant with a very offensive hand gesture.

Belethor stared at the front door a while after it had slammed shut, a strange expression on his face, like the most devious plot was forming within his mind. His eyes then met with Hroar's, and he looked as if he only now noticed the odd kid in his shop.

Hroar gave the man the sort of smile that said, "well, I guess I'd best be going too". He started taking slow but determinate steps toward the door. In the corner of his eye he saw Belethor moving as well. His heart was suddenly pounding hard as a smith's hammer.

He was already squeezing the handle when he felt a firm hand land on his shoulder.

"Just a minute there, sonny," Belethor said.

 _Shit!_

Hroar turned, looked at the tall man with his eyes wide. Surprise-wide, not guilty-wide. Hopefully.

Belethor said nothing at first, just stared at him with a tight set to his mouth.

"Forgot something?" he asked then.

"Uh," Hroar replied, "no, sir."

"Uh huh."

The Breton then reached his hand under Hroar's shirt, retrieved the apple and held it in front of his reddening face.

"What's this, then?"

"It's, uh . . . it's . . . well, um—" _What, a gift from your mother?_ "It's—"

Belethor shook his head. "It's _incredible_ is what it is. An apple? Really, an apple?"

Hroar could only think of nodding. Yes, indeed, it was an apple. There wasn't really anything else to take!

"You're going to have me call the guards over an apple?" The man tossed the fruit back into the basket. "You're going to be thrown into the Dragonsreach Dungeon over an _apple_? You're throwing away your future . . . over . . . an . . . _apple_?"

 _The dungeon_! Panic wrapped its cold, clammy claw around Hroar's heart. The Companions! When the word of his imprisonment got to them, they would not hesitate to send him back to Honorhall Orphanage. He could kiss his dreams—his future—goodbye for good. And what then? He'd join the Thieves Guild? Not much future for him there, either, as it would appear.

He clasped his hands and gave the merchant his most piteous look. "Oh, please, sir. I didn't—"

"You didn't what? Think this through? No, I believe it's quite evident you did not. And yet you leave me with little choice."

"You don't . . you don't have to tell anyone?"

"I don't?" Belethor shook his head. "Shows what you know, sonny. See, it's not just me here. What would I be if I, a respected merchant of this community, did not report a thief? How would that make me look in the eyes of my colleagues? It's their interests on the line, too, you know."

"They—they don't need to—"

"Know? Oh, they do. I believe they very much do need to know!"

Hroar had nothing more, no matter how desperately he tried to reach inside him to find words to thaw the heart of this hard-faced man.

But then those stony features seemed to soften a trifle. Belethor cocked his head. "You're the new boy of the Companions are you not?"

Hroar nodded.

"They will sure be disappointed to hear that their new hope turned out to be a lousy thief." The merchant shook his head slowly and regretfully.

 _Emphasis on_ " _lousy"._

A twinkle appeared then at the corner of the man's eye. "On the other hand . . . "

A flicker of hope ignited at the back of Hroar's despondent soul.

Belethor gave his head a quick shake. "Nah! That wouldn't work."

"What, what?" demanded Hroar. "What wouldn't work?" He was desperate enough by this point to accept any proposal just to save himself.

The Breton regarded him for a while, looking like he was considering something. "Well," he said slowly. "There might be _one_ thing you could do for me; something that might convince me to turn a blind eye this once."

An uncomfortable presentiment arose within his abused orphan-boy's heart. "You don't mean . . ."

Belethor frowned. "What?" Then his eyes went wide. "What, no! Ech, no no _no_!" He shuddered, as if to shake the disgraceful insinuation off of him. "What do you take me for!"

Hroar felt the red of his face get deeper and hotter.

"No," said Belethor after getting over the shock. "I have a proposition for you. One allowing you to put your insidious tendencies to good use. Are you interested?"

Despite a nasty foreboding, Hroar nodded.

Belethor smiled a shrewd smile.

"Good," he crooned. "Now, listen . . . "


End file.
